


Fairy Tales (and Other Irrefutable Truths)

by thedeepestdaydream



Category: Carry On - Fandom, Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Happily Ever Afters, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mentions of Past Homelessness, Minor Simon Snow/Agatha Wellbelove, Modern Royalty, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Simon Snow, Orphan Simon Snow, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Prince Simon Snow, Rated T for Simon's Potty Mouth, Romantic Comedy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Plotting, Watford is Genovia, because i'm a sucker for them, princess diaries 2 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeepestdaydream/pseuds/thedeepestdaydream
Summary: Simon Snow wasn't one for fairy tales.Growing up a London orphan, Simon had more pressing things to worry about, like what he was going to do after he inevitably aged out of care. Shortly after he turns eighteen, however, he discovers that fairy tales aren't total rubbish because he apparentlyisone himself.As the fabled Lost Prince of Watford, Simon now has to meet the expectations of his new-found country, his people, and his friends, all while learning to walk and talk like the prince he apparently is. Not only that, but now he's expected tomarrybefore he can take the crown he isn't even sure he's ready for.It wouldn't be nearly as bad if Baz wasn't so maddeninglydistractingwith all of his plotting...***A Princess Diaries 2 AU because why the hell not, right?
Relationships: Fiona Pitch & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Malcolm Grimm & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Mitali Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 79
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We're Not in Genovia Anymore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467734) by [AliceLiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceLiddle/pseuds/AliceLiddle). 



> Hello all!
> 
> This idea bashed me over the head with a club and I've been obsessed with it ever since. No knowledge of The Princess Diaries 2 is needed to enjoy this fic, so no worries if you haven't seen it. I'm just borrowing the premise. 
> 
> I'll try to post on a regular schedule, but life tends to happen to the best of us so we'll see. Buckle in, because this is gonna be a doozer of a longfic for me.
> 
> Enjoy!

**SIMON**

“Stop squirming, Simon.” Penny says wearily from behind the book she’s reading. She’s just finished law school so you’d think she’d take a break from reading deadly dull law books as big as her head. (It’s in another language too, though I can’t tell if it’s French or Italian from where I am up on the stool.) (It could be bloody _Latin_ for all I knew, I was shit at languages.)

“Easy for you to say,” I grouse, “You’re not the one getting jabbed with pins.”

“You wouldn’t get jabbed if you’d just _hold still_.”

I grumble mutinously, but try my best to not move while the royal tailor fits me for the suit I’ll be wearing to the ball tonight.

“Can I just skip this one, Pen? Just this once?” I know I’m whinging but I can’t help it, I hate going to these things. It’ll be another night where Penny will inevitably drag me away from the refreshments table to shake too many hands and make awful, boring smalltalk with every simpering Lord and Lady that I was put in front of. I flinch and wince when another pin inevitably pokes me in the arm.

Penny sighs and closes her book with a snap. “Of course you have to go, Si. The crown prince of Watford can’t miss his own birthday party.”

I sag. She’s right, of course. Shit.

Even now, almost three years later, I’m still blindsided at the reminder of my title. At the fact that not only do I _have_ a title, but that that title is _prince_.

I hadn’t started life as Simon Snow Llewellyn-Salisbury, crown prince of Watford. I’d started out as Simon Snow, unwanted orphan.

Mitali had found me while I was in a holding cell in London, after the Mets nabbed me trying to pick some bloke’s pocket. I knew it’d been a bad idea, but I’d aged out of care a few weeks before and it’d been so long since I’d last eaten that my hands had started shaking by then. My fingerprints had apparently set off some kind of international alarm. I was released and ushered away to an embassy where Mitali had introduced herself as Mitali Bunce, the Prime Minister of a country I’d never heard of. Then she sat me down and told me a story.

Luciana Salisbury had been the crown princess of Watford, a small European principality. The royal family was beloved by its people, but the king and queen were elderly, and had died suddenly before Luciana was of age to inherit the throne. Shortly after she fell madly in love with a Welsh-born diplomat that was well below her station. They married anyway, which was a huge scandal at the time, and conceived a baby boy. Then one day, all three of them disappeared. The princess and diplomat’s bodies were found months later in their little cottage in Wales. The baby was never recovered.

The Lost Prince of Watford became a legend. Some people said he’d died that night, like his parents. Others believed that he was still out there, unaware that he was royalty.

Mitali showed me a picture of Luciana, posing for a formal portrait with a handsome brown-haired man while a smiling baby sat in her lap. The baby had blue eyes, messy curls, and three moles on his right cheek.

Just like me.

I was taken to the palace—an honest to Christ _palace_ —where I ate fit to bursting at the longest table I’ve ever seen and then slept in a bed big enough for ten people. Then came the tutors, who’d been determined to mercilessly cram into my skull everything royals were supposed to live and breathe from the moment they left the womb. They taught me things like Watfordian history, politics, and which fork to use with what meal. (Honestly, I think this one is the most confusing.)

It's hard not to get frustrated. There’s so much I have to learn and so many people are counting on me not to cock it up. Penny says I’m doing well, that asking anyone to learn a lifetime’s worth of knowledge in only three years is a tall order. I think Penny could manage it better than me, if she were in my place. (Baz probably could too, the bloody perfect tosser.)

I’m walking back to my room after my fitting by myself because Penny ran off to get ready for tonight.

 _But we’ve only just eaten breakfast_ , I’d said, confused.

 _Don’t remind me,_ she’d groaned.

As I pass the ballroom, I dodge a group of palace attendants holding gigantic flower pieces and nearly bowl over someone else holding a box full of candelabras.

It’s been chaos around the palace lately, everyone preparing for the ball that will be thrown to celebrate my 21st birthday. My birthdays around here have always been too overdone for my taste, but those were _nothing_ compared to what this one’s shaping up to be. This one’s gonna have ballroom dancing and ice sculptures and bloody _fireworks_ because my turning twenty-one was a big deal.

When the crown prince turns twenty-one, he is of legal age to take the crown and become King of Watford.

I try not to think about it, but it’s getting harder and harder not to the closer my birthday gets. I don’t think I’m ready to be a king. I still feel like the London orphan in worn trackies and too-baggy shirts most days. Penny says that it’ll all come with time, but at this rate I feel like a century wouldn’t be enough time to make me a good king.

I feel myself working up to a proper sulk, so I do what I always do at times like this—I remember my list.

I keep a list of all the things I like about my new life in Watford. I started making it after the first year, when I stopped expecting someone to burst in at any second to say that it’d all been a horrible mistake and that I wasn’t who everyone thought I was. I pull out my good things list when stuff gets hard, using it to remind myself of why I’m going through all of this in the first place, of what I’d miss if I left.

Because I’ve thought about it before, leaving. But that’s what the list is for.

I make it to my room and throw myself onto my bed. I roll over onto my side and mentally take out my list, hugging a pillow to my chest.

  


**Things I like about my new life in Watford:**

**No. 1—Sour cherry scones**

I’d never had a sour cherry before Watford. Not a _real_ one, anyway. Sour cherries are apparently what Watford’s known for. And they’re _amazing_ when you put them in a scone. Sour cherry scones are light and soft and just a little bit salty. I always have a whole batch of them for breakfast and another for afternoon tea.

I have to move on to the next thing on my list because my mouth’s watering just thinking about them.

**No. 2—The Bunces**

Penelope Bunce is my best friend. I would’ve gone mad within my first week if it hadn’t been for her. She’s smart as a whip and infuriatingly pragmatic, but she helps me with my lessons and saves me from awkward conversations by swooping in and politely dismissing whoever I’m talking to when I eventually get nervous and start to stammer over my words. She also stops me from acting like a numpty, which I guess I appreciate.

This spot used to only belong to Penny when I’d first started my list, but I added Mitali when she agreed to stop calling me “Your Royal Highness” and call me “Simon” instead. She’s Penny’s mum and they’re so alike that it’s scary sometimes. She’s mostly pretty strict, but she makes sure to check up on me every so often and tells Todd—that’s my personal attendant—to be sure to schedule me some breaks.

She also used to be really good friends with my mum and she tells me about her sometimes. I can tell she didn’t like my dad as much—her mouth goes all thin when I ask about him—but I don’t mind. Any story is better than the nothing I had before.

**No. 3—Fencing**

Fencing is apparently Watford’s national sport. It was one of the only lessons I immediately liked. Coach Mac also told me I was one of the fastest learners he’d ever had, which felt good to hear even though he was probably just being nice. I love the days that I get to practice. It takes my mind off things and gets me so tired that I go right to sleep instead of staying up thinking.

Baz fences too, because of course he does. He’s as graceful as he is ruthless.

We’ve only ever had one bout, and it ended in a fistfight. (I won both.)

**No. 4—My parents**

I like having them so close. Sometimes I’ll sneak out of the palace at night and go visit them in the cemetery. It’s a long walk, but I don’t mind.

**No. 5—Having clothes that fit**

I’ve never had clothes that somebody else hadn’t worn first, much less anything tailored specifically for me. It’s a good feeling.

**No. 6—The palace**

The palace is massive.

It has loads of doors that lead to different things: bedrooms, tea rooms, sitting rooms, and apparently a bloody _chapel_. I’ve lived here for nearly three years now and I still haven’t seen it all. Penny even says that there’s supposed to be secret passages too, but I haven’t found any yet.

Not that I’ve had much of a chance to look for them. In between lessons and functions and public appearances, I barely have enough time to string a sentence together, much less go poking around.

I still love it, though. Everything inside is bright and warm and open, which is completely different from the care homes I was used to.

The outside’s amazing too. The garden’s probably my favorite place in the whole palace. It’s sprawling and beautiful and there’s even a hedge maze! (I got lost the first time I went in, Penny had to come in and drag me out.)

The garden’s also filled with pink roses. Mitali says that those roses were mum’s favorite thing about the garden because they reminded her of me. Now they’re my favorite thing about the garden because they remind me of my mum.

**No. 7—The people**

Everyone in the palace is so _nice_.

My instructors are patient with me even though I’m so thick. Ebb the groundskeeper is weepy and mad as a hatter, but she lets me follow her around while she tends to the garden and always invites me to her little cottage for tea. (She’s also the only person on the palace staff who agreed to just call me “Simon.”) Cook Pritchard lets me hide in the kitchen sometimes when things get to be too much. She even makes roast beef every Friday because I told her how much I liked it.

It took a while, getting used to people doing stuff for me just because I said something.

I told Todd during my first week that I liked the trainers they’d bought for me. (I did, they were comfortable and didn’t have holes in them like my old pair.) I’d come back to my room that night to find several more of the same pair in ten different colors.

Another time I mentioned that I didn’t like raisins. The serving boy had started apologizing like he’d just killed my dog and immediately whisked away the plate of raisin scones in front of me. I have yet to see a single raisin since then.

I’m more careful about what I say now.

**No. 8—Just… Watford**

When I first got here, I was taken on a tour of Watford—it’s a small country so we managed it in a single day—and I realized that I love it here.

The weather’s always nice and warm, even in the winter. The scenery’s beautiful too, like something out of a movie. There are rolling green hills, endless fields of wildflowers, and a big white sandy beach with deep blue water.

I wish I were able to just wander around on my own and look at everything. The streets of Pyrus—the capital city—had looked so lively and colorful that I wanted to pop into every shop and try all of the food the street vendors sold. I wanted to stop every person I saw for a chat, ask them how they liked living in Watford. (You can do that here apparently, stop and chat with a stranger.) (You can’t do that in London, people would just look at you like you’re barmy and keep moving.)

Everyone just seemed so… happy.

Penny says that when I become king, I’ll be responsible for the happiness of Watford’s citizens. I really like that, actually. That I can keep everyone smiling.

**No. 9—My lessons**

I added this one recently because I didn’t used to like my lessons. They were difficult, overwhelming, and I’d always leave them feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

Now, though, I can’t help but enjoy them.

Coach Mac is my fencing instructor. He’s really good, I’ve only ever beaten him a few times. We talk sports while I practice, mostly fencing and football. He cheerfully declares that Watford F.C. is shit but supports them wholeheartedly anyway.

Professor Minos teaches me politics and Watfordian history. He’s a great big bull of a man, but is surprisingly soft-spoken. He’s patient and methodical, answering all of my questions—I always have loads—and always makes sure I’m not lost.

Miss Possibelf teaches me manners and elocution. She’s my favorite tutor, I think. She never snaps at me when I can’t get the words out, she just tells me to take a deep breath and try again. Now when I get frustrated because I can’t do something, I just take a deep breath and try again.

**No. 10—People would actually miss me if I were gone**

Well, except for Baz.

Fuck Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://thedeepestdaydream.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'd like to thank everyone who left me such lovely comments on the first chapter. All of your kind words really encouraged me to keep going with this wacky idea. I'd also like to thank my wonderful beta [samati](https://twitter.com/samati) for helping me tidy this fic up. She's seriously the best.
> 
> Now onwards to the party!

**SIMON**

I’m in the crowded ballroom, dancing with yet another girl I don’t know. I’m listening to her go on and on about her champion Bichon Frise and seriously considering just making a break for it.

It’s been like this all night. Every time I turn around, another mother is there to throw her daughter at me. Apparently, everyone neglected to tell me that turning twenty-one not only meant that I was going to be king, but that I was now in the market for a queen.

I force myself to stay with the girl, focusing on not stepping on her toes and nodding along in what I hope are all the right places. She’s pretty enough I guess, but her voice is too high and she flutters her eyelashes too much. She almost looks like she’s trying to blink smoke out of her eyes.

Wait, what was her name again? Shit, I can’t remember. Was it Paula? Pippa?

I scan the room over my dance partner’s shoulder for Penny as surreptitiously as I can. (Which probably isn’t much.)

The ball is as over the top as I expected. The grand ballroom has been decorated in Watford’s colors: rich purples and forest greens. Small circular tables have been placed along the walls, ornate candelabras placed in the center of each one. The center of the room was left clear; the guests dancing, mingling, and preening there. There was a string quartet in front of one of the massive windows, filling the room with soft music.

It’s all so horrifically posh that it gives me a headache.

I finally spot Penny across the room, speaking to a group of men that I vaguely recognize as being members of the Watford Parliament. She looks nice—her purple gown has lace sleeves that go off her shoulders and her hair’s been twisted into a complicated looking style that left some of the bright purple strands curling around her ears.

I’m dead jealous of her ability to look so comfortable and at ease at these things, like there was nowhere else she’d rather be. I know it’s an act, though. As soon as we’re alone, she’s going to kick off her heels, let down her hair, and complain to me about every uncomfortable part of her outfit. It’s a tradition at this point.

I lock eyes with her and shoot her a pleading look. She gives me a curt nod and I nearly sag with relief. As I go to turn my attention back to my dance partner (she’s talking about dog shows now, ugh), someone else catches my eye and I have to stop myself from groaning aloud.

Baz Fucking Pitch is here. Because this night couldn’t get any worse.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, The Marquess of Wesperlin, is heir to the House of Pitch. The Pitches were next in line to inherit the throne after the Salisburys, and it was only my return that kept them out of power. Baz was a Pitch on his mother’s side, and she had died when he was only five. He was apparently the last male Pitch heir.

He has an aunt, his mum’s sister, but she isn’t in the running to rule for some reason. Penny tried to explain it to me once, saying something about the whole thing being “archaic sexist nonsense”, but I still don’t really get it.

Baz is my mortal enemy. He’s made it clear since the first time we’d met that he hated me, that if it weren’t for me showing up, he’d be king. He never passes up the opportunity to allude that I’m not fit to rule, making smart comments about my lack of both refinement and knowledge of Watford. I’d punched him during my first week at the palace, so now his nose is a little bent towards the bottom. I’m still chuffed at that.

He stood at the far end of the room speaking with his father, The Duke of Vesterford, and otherwise looked like a posh wanker in a charcoal grey suit. His black hair was slicked back like it normally was. Paired with his widow’s peak and pale skin, it made him look like a black-and-white movie vampire. (I don’t see why he styles his hair that way, it obviously looked better when he left it down.) He held a flute of champagne delicately in his long fingers, looking like the bloody epitome of refinement and class.

He turns his head in that moment and I start when our eyes meet. Shit, he’s caught me staring. He raises an eyebrow with a smirk and I turn away, fuming. Baz has a way of getting under my skin without saying a word, the git.

Penny materializes at my elbow then, thank God. She converses with my dance partner like they’re old friends, asking after her Bichon Frise—named Pierre, apparently. Penny’s good at this, at making smalltalk with people. She wants to follow in her mother’s footsteps one day and is always saying that _making connections is important, Simon._ She expertly navigates the conversation until there’s an opening for us to excuse ourselves. Then she steers me away before anyone else can pounce on me.

We hide in a secluded corner and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks Pen,” I say, “If I had to hear one more thing about her dog, I was gonna go mad.”

“Well, Lady Stainton does have a one-track mind.”

I snap my fingers in recognition. “Phillipa Stainton! That’s what she said her name was!”

Penny gives me the look that meant I was being particularly thick. I get that look a lot.

I shrug and stuff the crab puffs I’d swiped off of a nearby refreshments table into my face. She wrinkles her nose at my atrocious manners and hands me a napkin. I fumble with it and curse, bending over to pick it up before I realize Penny has more.

I swallow the rest of my crab puffs and wipe my mouth with the napkin, glancing around in case I catch Baz’s eyes again. (Baz’s eyes were weird.) (They weren’t blue or green, but grey like the clouds before a storm.) He’s normally pretty easy to spot since he has a good three inches on me. He loves to lord that over me too, by literally looking down his nose at me.

“Looking for someone?” Penny asks.

I scowl while still scanning the room. “Baz is here. What’s he doing at my birthday party anyway?”

“He’s doing what everyone else is presumably doing, mingling and being seen.”

I turn back to Penny, still scowling. “He’s up to something. He’s never come to any of my other birthdays.”

I can see her fighting not to roll her eyes. She never believes me when I say Baz is plotting. He usually is, coming up with different ways to steal the throne and generally make my life miserable.

“Your 21st birthday is kind of a big deal around here, you know. He was bound to show up.” I must look as incredulous as I feel because she actually does roll her eyes this time. “Look, you’re going to have to speak to him eventually. He needs to be seen making nice with you after that fiasco last month.”

I can’t help the unprincely scoff I let out.

‘That fiasco last month’ was when Baz actually tried to kill me by pushing me down the palace stairs during a charity gala. I could never prove it, but one minute we were arguing at the top of the stairs and the next I was sprawled out at the bottom, blood from my broken nose drenching my white dress shirt. Amidst the swarm of palace attendants making sure I was alright, Baz had disappeared.

I ball up my napkin and chuck it into a nearby bin with more force than necessary.

“Baz couldn’t be nice to me if you held a gun to his head.”

**BAZ**

Snow looks gorgeous. Damn him.

His bronze curls have been expertly mussed, pairing well with his boyish good looks. His royal blue tuxedo jacket makes his blue eyes pop while also accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. And Snow in those black tuxedo trousers shouldn’t be allowed. It was practically _indecent_. He’d bent over to pick something up earlier and I’d nearly choked on my champagne at the sight.

I had thought the novelty of seeing Snow in formal wear would fade over time, but no such luck. It was still a shock to my senses even three years later. Damn him twice over. 

What’s worse, I clearly wasn’t the only one appreciating the view.

Flocks of twittering maidens trailed after Snow, like ducklings wrapped in lace and silk. They giggle behind their hands and shoot him coquettish smiles every time he turns around. Their mothers practically toss them at Snow’s feet, and he’s too stupidly noble to refuse a dance. I’m self-aware enough to admit that I’m really fucking bitter about the whole thing.

I’ve tried not to watch by engrossing myself in conversation with my father. However, my eyes would always traitorously drift and scan the room for Snow and his latest dance partner. I’d rake them over what little of Snow’s face I could see, trying to glean as much information as possible.

_Who was he dancing with now? What were they talking about? Was Snow smiling, or was that a grimace?_

I hide my scowl behind a sip of champagne. He’s danced with _so many girls._ They were all clearly after the crown because it couldn’t be Snow’s footwork that had them falling over themselves to dance with him.

Snow’s a terrible dancer. He’s stiff, awkward, and you can practically see him counting out the steps in his head. I imagine cutting in, taking his hand in mine and leading him into the center of the ballroom to show him how it was done. I’d lead of course, because I’m both taller and the better dancer, and I’d hold him close while we glided across the room. Everyone else in the room would fade away, the two of us only having eyes for each other. He’d give me that beautiful smile that I’ve only ever seen aimed at other people, blue eyes sparkling, before leaning in and—well. 

I take a small amount of solace in the fact that Snow started to look more and more like a cornered animal every time a new girl came out of the woodwork.

And in that single moment I looked up to find _him_ staring at _me_ from across the crowded ballroom, the intensity of it causing a thrill to shoot down my spine. 

But then Bunce had cut in and spirited him away.

They’re currently hiding in the corner, heads together in conversation. Snow and Bunce are always together, thick as thieves. It’s supremely irritating to see them like this, clearly unaware of the world outside of their little bubble. (It made me want to stick a pin into that bubble until it burst.)

Next to me, my father notices my inattention—damn it—and follows my line of sight. He tries to hide his distaste for Snow while out in public, but I can see it in the way his lips thin and his eyes narrow slightly. “Ah yes, you must be sure to wish Prince Simon many happy returns.”

The insinuation that I should do so publicly is loud and clear. “Of course, father.”

“Last month’s… accident is still too fresh in everyone’s minds, so we must remain civil.”

My face remains impassive, but I internally suppress a shudder at the memory.

The incident on the stairs had truly been an accident. Snow had been stalking me as I tried to leave the gala, convinced that I was enacting some grand plot to take the crown from him. In reality, my father had told me that some of my mother’s books were being kept in the palace’s library. I’d been on my way to try and find them, Snow doggedly on my heels as I climbed the palace stairs. I had lashed out at him in irritation while he’d been unbalanced, and down he went.

He may drive me mad and I may take the occasional swipe at him, but I’d never _hurt_ Snow, not really. Which is why I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of him crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, covered in blood. I’d had to leave before anyone noticed I was shaking.

Excusing myself from my father, I drain my champagne glass and leave it on a nearby table then make a beeline for Snow and Bunce’s little corner. Snow’s back is to the room, like the dreadful host he was. It wasn’t like this room was filled with his _honored guests_ or anything.

Just as I approach him from behind, Snow backs up a step. Right onto my foot. I hiss in pain as Snow bumbles out apologies before he’s even turned around. “Sorry, I’m sorry, are you—”

“Christ, Snow,” I snap, my intentions to be civil going out the fucking window. “I know you have all the grace of a drunken sailor, but could you possibly watch where you’re stomping?”

His look of concern melts into one of undisguised annoyance. “What do you want, Baz?”

I level him with a cool stare. “Well, I _was_ going to ask you for a dance, but now I’m afraid neither of us would survive it if your clomping about is any indication. How many poor girls did you leave to hobble off the dance floor after crushing their toes into paste?”

His ears go pink. “Oh, fuck off!”

“Although, I suppose I could lead,” I pretend to muse, giving him a quick once-over just because I know it’ll rile him up. “It’ll still be difficult, however, since you dance worse than my six-year-old half-sisters—"

He takes the bait beautifully, going blotchy with anger and getting into my personal space.

 _“Simon,”_ Bunce hisses, pulling on his arm to try to get his attention, but he only has eyes for me. _Good._

People are starting to stare, murmuring behind their hands. Much to my chagrin, our rows have become infamous, each one sending the rumour mill buzzing for weeks. The Lost Prince and The Last Pitch, at each other’s throats once again.

We stare each other down, nearly chest to chest. His eyes are flinty, practically sparking. My heart is thrumming in my chest, my blood singing in my ears. I know I take a perverse amount of pleasure in getting a rise out of Snow, but he just makes it so _easy._ He’s entirely unlike anyone else I know. He isn’t well-bred to a fault, cold and stiff and polite no matter the situation. He’s all volatile passion, his emotions a lit match on kerosene. 

I know I can never have the warmth of his heart, so I’ll content myself with the heat of his flames.

**SIMON**

I’m seeing red.

Red and black and stormy grey.

**BAZ**

I’d first laid eyes on Snow a few days after he’d suddenly materialized in London. He’d apparently been picked up off the street, living in care homes and picking pockets. My father had been beside himself when he’d been told that I was to lose the throne to a street urchin. I had offered to visit the palace as a spy in the guise of offering Snow my family’s well-wishes.

It would be a lie if I said that my offer had been purely selfless. I’d actually been intensely curious to see the boy that had been nothing but a fairytale for most of my life. To me, finding The Lost Prince of Watford was akin to finding Snow White slumbering in her glass casket in the woods.

The first thing that had struck me was how thin he was. Not willowy like I was, but pinched and drawn like he hadn’t had a proper meal in a long time. His clothes, though obviously tailored, had practically hung off of him.

The next thing I noticed were the moles. His skin was littered with them, but my attention was instantly drawn to the three moles that dotted his right cheek. It was a sight I’d seen countless times, in pictures in my grade school textbooks and in portraits in the palace. Seeing that familiar triangular constellation in person was as uncanny as seeing a ghost.

Then Snow had opened his mouth and I’d also come to find that not only was The Lost Prince of Watford real, he was also an idiot. He was unrefined, ignorant, and stumbled over words like no other. The list of his faults went on and on and on, and I couldn’t help but point them out. That day also marked the first time Snow had punched me, but it would be far from the last. We’d been nemeses ever since, trading—both verbal and sometimes physical—jabs during various social functions and generally detesting one another.

The fairytale illusion of The Lost Prince had been shattered, but I didn’t really mind. I was content in my hatred for him. But then Snow, ever the bane of my existence, had to go and get fit.

Distressingly fit.

 _This is fine,_ I’d thought. _I could deal with this! I was surrounded by fit blokes all the time, what was one more?_

And maybe it would’ve been fine, if I hadn’t come to one damning final realization about Snow: He was maddeningly paradoxical, frustratingly anomalous. He was an endless contradiction.

He was unrefined, yet was quick with a smile and even quicker with a laugh. He was ignorant, yet threw himself into learning the customs and history of a country he’d never known existed with a single-minded determination that was almost alarming. He stumbled over his words, yet spoke with such an intense sincerity that he held you rapt. And on and on and on it went.

Falling in love with Simon Snow Llewellyn-Salisbury should’ve been impossible in every sense of the word. So, naturally, I found it as easy as breathing.

**PENELOPE**

They’re at it again.

I don’t know what it is about Baz Pitch that gets under Simon’s skin. Sure, Baz is a prat, but so is most of the other nobility Simon’s met and _they_ don’t rile him up this much. It’s a shame, really. I get the feeling that they could do so much good together.

**BAZ**

“That’s quite enough,” says a brisk voice from behind me. Mitali Bunce stands in an olive-green evening gown, hands on her hips and her face a mask of disapproval.

My lip curls. Bunces all seem to have an overinflated sense of their own power. The elder Bunce must realize how this looks as well because she drops her hands and sighs. “Prince Simon, I ask that you reconsider your behavior. I don’t think I have to impart to you just how important tonight is for you, and for Watford.”

Snow is fighting to stay angry, but I can see the moment the abashment wins out. The taut lines of his body relax, and he turns his glare to the floor.

“I suggest you escort Penny for a turn about the garden, get a bit of fresh air.”

Snow shoots me one last dirty look before stalking off, Bunce the younger hot on his heels.

**SIMON**

“Can you believe that—that absolute sodding–!” I rage, stomping into the garden.

It’s lovely out here, fairy lights wound around the shrubbery and were strung up along the walkways, but I hardly notice because I’m practically frothing at the mouth. We stop in front of the fountain and Penny sits on its edge while I pace in front of her. I run my hand through my hair in agitation, cocking up the hard work Rita,my stylist,had put into making it look halfway decent for once.

Just another thing to blame on Baz.

“Simon.”

“I didn’t step on any toes but his!”

“Simon!”

“Not as good as his six-year-old sister, he says!”

_“Simon!”_

I finally stop when she moves to stand in front of me. She sighs. “Look, I don’t know what it is about Lord Wesperlin that gets you so shirty—”

“He doesn’t get me shirty,” I grumble.

“ _But_ ,” she barrels on, “it isn’t a good idea to go off like that. You have to think of your image. He _wants_ you to make an arse of yourself, so don’t give him all the chances he needs.”

I open my mouth to argue but quickly snap it shut again. I slump into her vacated seat on the fountain and groan. “Why do you always have to make so much sense?”

“Because _one of us_ has to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://thedeepestdaydream.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd once again like to thank my lovely beta [samati](https://twitter.com/samati) for all of her help! She's awesome!

**SIMON**

Today is one of those rare days where I have a chance to catch my breath. I don’t have any lessons because Mitali arranged that I had the day after my birthday completely free. When I’d asked why, she said to consider it a birthday present. (I know the real reason is because after my coronation, I probably won’t get another break like this for a long time.)

Penny isn’t with me—she was spending the day Skyping Micah, her American boyfriend. They’ve been together since before I got here, having met at a palace function a few years back. He was the son of an American diplomat, and an alright sort of bloke for being American. They don’t really get to see each other much, both of their schedules being so busy.

I could tell Penny felt bad for leaving me by myself. I practically had to lock her in her room so she would just stay and talk to her boyfriend like I knew she wanted to. I assured her that I could survive one day without her. Probably.

I decide to use my time off exploring a wing of the palace I hadn’t gotten to see much of yet. The wing that used to belong to my parents. It might be all in my head, but their wing felt different from mine. Somber, almost.

The portraits on the walls were different from my wing, too. In my wing, the walls were covered with portraits of the palace and different Watfordian landscapes. Here, they were all of important-looking people with serious looks on their faces. I swivel my head around, mouth open, as I try to look at all of the portraits at once. It was like a timeline, the clothes getting more modern the farther down the corridor I walked.

I freeze in my tracks as I get to the last portrait at the very end and I bend my neck up to look at it. I recognize it instantly, from the picture Mitali first gave me in that holding cell what felt like a lifetime ago. It was the portrait of me and my parents. Which meant—

My head snaps back to look at the portraits behind me, heart racing as I notice things I’d missed before—eyes like mine, noses like mine, loads and loads of freckles and moles. These were the Salisburys. My family.

I go back to examine every portrait carefully, smiling so much that my cheeks hurt.

Eventually I make it back to the end of the corridor and, after another long look at my parent’s faces, I decide to keep going.

This part of the palace is clearly not used as much. It’s dimly lit, and more than a little creepy. Eventually, the corridors start changing, winding and splitting like a maze. I have to turn back after hitting a dead-end more than once. I peek around another corner, trying to decide whether to keep going or to just turn back, when I spot a giant wooden door in a little alcove, almost completely hidden away.

_A secret passage?_

I bound over excitedly and open the door. Inside, I find what looks to be a tiny chapel. There’s a little bench to kneel on in front of a ledge where an old bible lay open, a big black cross hanging on the wall over it. Multicolored light shines in through small stained-glass windows on either side of the cross. Paintings like the ones you find in every church decorate the walls, showing priests in robes holding bibles. I frown, disappointed. I’d hoped for a dungeon, or at least some old swords.

I poke around anyway in case I find anything interesting. There isn’t much in here, though. Just some tarnished candelabras with candles that have long since burned out, a vase filled with withered flowers, and a bust of a bald, bearded bloke. This was hardly worth an afternoon’s exploring, was it?

I go to lift the bust. There are always switches hidden underneath them, right? I still nearly jump out of my skin when the bust tilts back like it’s on a hinge and a part of the wall to my left creaks open. I grin gleefully. _Brill!_

The secret passage is darker and danker than the rest of the palace. It’s obvious that no one’s been down here for a while. Light barely shone through the dingy windows near the ceiling and cobwebs covered everything. Plaster was crumbling off the wall in some places, revealing the moldy brick underneath. The faint sound of water dripping could be heard in the distance, making me feel like I was in a cave instead of a literal palace.

I turn another corner and there’s a small room with a white wall that would be completely bare if not for the small metal hatch in the middle of it, roughly the size of an envelope. Curious, I open the hatch and peer inside.

I jerk away, the bright light from the room beyond making spots burst in front of my eyes. I blink rapidly, shaking my head like a dog that’s trying to get water out of its ears. When I can see again, I lean back in, squinting this time.

I’m looking through an ornate metal grate, high on the wall overlooking a stately looking room filled with blokes in powdered wigs. They sat on tiered seats that wrapped around three of the room’s four walls. Along the fourth wall directly opposite me, Mitali sat at a fancy desk that faced the room.

I gape. I’m looking over the Watford Parliament floor.

“And so,” one of them says as he paces the room, his back to me, “as of the 24th of February of this year, on the occasion of his 21st birthday, another Watfordian of the royal bloodline became eligible to assume the throne.”

_What?_

“My son,” the man continues silkily, “The Marquis of Wesperlin. He is ready to take his rightful place as king of Watford.”

A wave of murmurs fills the room, but I hardly hear them.

This was Malcolm Grimm, The Duke of Vesterford, and Baz’s dad. Baz’s dad was trying to convince Parliament to give the throne to Baz instead. I clench my fists. I _knew_ Baz was plotting!

Mitali stands up from her chair. “With all due respect, Your Grace, you must recall that Prince Simon is next in line to inherit the throne.”

“That may be true, Prime Minister, but you yourself must recall The Marriage Law of 1816.”

Mitali frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

The Duke turns around, addressing the room. “The Marriage Law was enacted in a time very much like this when in 1814, Prince Francis of Watford went missing. When he returned, it was with news that he had wed a commoner and left her heavy with child.” He continued to pace, projecting his voice so that even I could hear him clearly from where I was up near the ceiling and behind a wall, his voice unwavering and sure.

“There was an uproar on the legitimacy of the wedding and birth,” The Duke went on, “but Prince Francis refused to annul the marriage and ascended to the throne regardless. To avoid such an incident from happening in the future, The Marriage Law of 1816 was passed. It states that if the heir to the throne were to disappear before their 21st birthday, they must first be wed to someone of reputable birth before they are allowed to take the throne.”

The floor erupted with chatter as I stood there, utterly gobsmacked.

_He can’t be serious!_

“Surely you can’t be serious,” Mitali says, echoing my thoughts. “That law was to stop illegitimate births, and we have no evidence of Prince Simon comporting himself in such a way where it would be necessary.”

The Duke’s lip curls, and he reminds me so much of Baz in that moment that I audibly growl. (I quickly clamp a hand over my mouth when some powdered wigs look around confusedly for the source of the noise.) “I assure you, the law is quite ironclad.”

Mitali opens her mouth to argue some more, but an old man with a cane in the front row speaks up. “The Duke is correct,” he says in a wizened voice, “The Marriage Law has been in place for over 300 years, and we will abide by it. Prince Simon is unqualified to rule as of now due to his disappearance and the fact that he has yet to marry. And forgive me, Prime Minister, but not all of us are sure that the prince is the most suitable choice to govern our great nation.”

Each one of his words makes my stomach sink lower, but it’s all the murmurs of agreement from the others that makes my stomach hit the floor.

“Now, gentlemen,” Mitali calls to the room, trying to get everyone’s attention, “I suggest that this honored body give Prince Simon one year during which time he must marry, or else he… forfeits the throne of Watford to young Lord Wesperlin.”

“I object,” The Duke says coldly.

Arguments burst out on the floor, Parliament members throwing out different timeframes like they’re fucking _bartering_.

“90 days!” Says one.

“2 months!” Cries another.

“30 days,” the same old man says decisively, and a hush falls over the room.

Having heard as much as I can stand, I turn and sprint from the room.

**MITALI**

“Thirty days! How the fuck am I supposed to get married in a _month?_ ” Simon paces the throne room like a caged animal, eyes flashing and nostrils flaring. I’d remind him to watch his language, but there were more important things to worry about at the moment.

“I mean, I’d have to get an arranged marriage or—” he freezes, then perks up like he’s had an epiphany, turning to me excitedly. “That’s it, an arranged marriage! We can do that in a month, right?”

I stare at his enthusiasm, eyes wide. The thought had occurred to me as well, of course—it was the only real solution, after all—I simply didn’t expect him to be so gung-ho about it. “Yes, we can, but are you sure you’d be alright with that? That’s a big commitment to take on.”

His brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I be alright with it?”

“Well,” I say haltingly, not sure why I’m arguing the point, “maybe you’d like to marry for love.”

He considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, it would’ve been nice to marry for love like my parents. I can’t though, not in a month.”

It breaks my heart to see how easily he can completely disregard his own happiness. He acted as if being unhappy were not only normal, but expected.

Oh Lucy, what made you give up your baby boy? Why would you allow him to go through such hardships?

“You don’t have to become king, Simon,” I say quietly. “You’re allowed to say no.”

“I can’t, not after everything everyone’s done for me.”

I place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No one will resent you for it, I hope you know that.”

I sigh at his dubious look. He’s so young, and too much has been placed on his shoulders.

He turns and faces the portrait of his mother, then of his grandmother, and so on. He turns back to me, shoulders squared. “I have to do this, Mitali. I have to stand up there with the rest of the Salisburys. I can’t let my family down, I can’t let _Watford_ down.”

I can’t help but smile, fond and more than a little sad. “Spoken like a true king.”

**BAZ**

“What?” I say faintly.

We’re in my father’s study, an imposing room of dark wood and deep red walls. The curtains are drawn shut against the evening moonlight, the only light coming from the chandelier I’m standing beneath. The smell of tobacco and old books permeates the room, smells I strongly associate with my father.

“It’s as I said,” my father states serenely, “Prince Simon will have to wed in thirty day’s time or relinquish the throne. I came upon an archaic law that I used in our favor.”

He frowns at the look on my face and places a bracing hand on my shoulder.

“No need to worry, Basilton,” he says, “Snow couldn’t possibly marry on such short notice. The throne will be yours yet.”

I nod, the picture of aloof indifference. My father squeezes my shoulder stiffly one last time before taking a seat at his desk and picking up a pen, a clear dismissal.

“Oh, and Basilton,” my father says without looking up from his writing and I freeze with my hand on the doorknob. “Have Vera pack some things for you. You and I have been invited by the Prime Minister to stay at the palace for the next thirty days, as a show of good faith.”

A pause.

“Of course, father,” I say calmly.

* * *

I am not calm.

I pace across my bedroom floor, running a shaky hand over my mouth and desperately trying to not shout curses aloud.

My father has made Snow an ultimatum—find a bride in thirty days or renounce the throne. Which means he’ll most likely be wed before August is out.

And I’ll be there for it all, thanks to my father accepting that invitation to stay at the palace.

I’ll have to watch as Snow goes hunting for a queen. As he woos some simpering debutante with bashful words and dazzling smiles. As he stands at the altar, a vision in white marching steadily towards him.

 _Christ_.

I throw myself gracelessly onto the couch at the foot of my bed, throwing an arm over my eyes.

I know I have absolutely no right to be so agitated. I’m not under any illusion that I have any right to Snow, or to who he weds. (I probably have less of a right than most, actually.)

I’d simply thought that we’d have more time—that _I’d_ have more time. More time to enjoy badgering him, at finding new ways to get under his skin. To watch him bumble his way through princedom through sheer force of will. To see him constantly fall, only to stubbornly pick himself up again and again. To witness as, against every effort, he remained brazenly, defiantly _himself_.

But most of all, I’m ashamed to say that I thought I’d have more time with the fantasy that Snow would somehow choose me over anyone else.

I snort mirthlessly. You’d think that I would’ve learned not to get caught up in fanciful fiction by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! Feedback would be much appreciated!
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://thedeepestdaydream.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an early chapter because I have no self-control!
> 
> As always, I big warm thank you to my beta [samati](https://twitter.com/samati) for helping me both clean up and letting me fret endlessly at her about this fic. She's a peach!

**PENELOPE**

He’s going to wear a hole into the floor with all of that pacing.

Simon’s been on edge ever since mum had told him about Baz and The Duke of Vesterford being invited to stay in the palace. We’re in one of the larger drawing rooms, waiting to welcome our guests.

I’m in my green tweed skirt suit, my hair tied back into a severe bun. It’s what I wear when I want to be intimidating. Simon calls it my Cross Librarian Look.

Simon himself looks like he actually put effort into what he looked like today. I didn’t even have to tell him to put on something other than jeans, a t-shirt, and that ridiculous brown leather jacket of his. Today, he actually deigned to wear a suit and tie. I nod to myself approvingly.

“I don’t like it,” Simon growls, still pacing. “Why’d we invite them to stay here, anyway?”

“On the surface, it was as a show of good will, but I’m pretty sure mum has something figured out.”

Simon stops in his tracks to gape at me. “You mean _Mitali_ invited them?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

“ _But what if they try something?_ ”

“That’s precisely why I invited them,” mum says as she strides in, looking ready for battle as usual in her black skirt suit and pumps.

Simon sputters at her words, but remembers himself quickly. He gives an exasperated sigh that’s more steam than air, takes a deep breath, and very deliberately says, “Why invite them if you don’t trust them?”

“Because,” mum says patiently, “if they’re up to something I’d much rather they be right under my nose.”

Simon doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he goes right back to pacing. I sigh, deciding to leave him to his strop.

I go over to a mirror on the wall and peer at my reflection critically. I’m getting tired of my purple hair, I think. It’s time for something new. Aqua, perhaps?

I watch my own eyes widen when Simon’s reflection appears next to mine, and they only get bigger when he starts anxiously fussing with his hair.

“What are you doing?” I ask him after a moment, amazed.

He goes pink and snatches his hands away from his curls. “Nothing! I just, uh—”

He stiffens further when the Major’s voice interrupts him. “Announcing His Grace, The Duke of Vesterford and The Most Honorable, The Marquis of Wesperlin.”

We all turn to the door as it’s opened and The Duke and Baz come striding in.

**BAZ**

Snow was in a suit. Because this wasn’t going to be difficult enough.

What’s worse, the slate grey of his suit paired well with his tawny complexion and made his normally unremarkable blue eyes look almost electric.

Damn it all.

Ever the professional, Bunce the younger breaks the tense silence first. “Lord Wesperlin, welcome. I hope the journey here went well?”

“As well as it could, Bunce,” I say dismissively before my eyes are magnetically pulled back to Snow.

He’s looking off to the side, obstinately ignoring me. I raise an eyebrow, waiting. Bunce actually has to elbow Snow before he offers me his own greeting.

“Baz,” Snow says curtly, still not looking directly at me.

“Snow,” I say back, unable to resist adding just the smallest of mocking lilts to the word. I’m rewarded with Snow finally turning to grace me with a storm cloud of an expression.

I smirk. He makes it so easy.

To my left my father and the elder Bunce were exchanging pleasantries like they were exchanging chess moves, both clearly trying to outmaneuver the other.

“Well, as _riveting_ as all of this is,” I say after a long pause, “I’m quite tired. Show me to my room, Snow.”

“What makes you think you can just order me around,” Snow growls.

“The fact that I am your guest,” I say blithely.

He glares daggers at me before turning and marching out the door. I follow close behind, admiring the view.

 _While I still can,_ I try not to think.

**SIMON**

“This is barbaric,” Penny says, crossing her arms with a huff.

Mitali sighs from her seat just behind us. “Yes, it is a bit, isn’t it? But desperate times, and all that.”

We’re sitting in the palace’s cinema—the palace has its own cinema, isn’t that bloody amazing?—munching on popcorn and going through slides featuring different girls I’m eligible to marry. It does feel a little weird, going through girls like I’m looking at a menu in a restaurant, but it’s also pretty fun. (I suddenly see the appeal to those dating apps.)

“Lady Lorraine Newton,” I read, the screen showing a pretty enough brown-haired girl. “She seems alright. It says she likes traveling and wine-tasting.”

“Oh no,” says Mitali, “She wouldn’t be a good choice. She’s a compulsive spender. She and her mother nearly drove her father, the Earl of Scantenberry, destitute.”

The next slide goes up. “Lady Beatrice Drake, also known as Trixie,” Mitali reads, peering at Trixie’s picture in interest. “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”

“Her girlfriend thinks so too,” Penny says slyly.

“Right on,” I say.

It goes on like that for a while. Most of the girls weren’t the right fit. They were all either too old, too young, too egocentric, and the like.

“Wait!” I say suddenly before Penny can go to the next slide. On the screen is an extremely pretty blonde girl on horseback, giving the camera a winning smile.

“Lady Agatha Wellbelove,” Mitali says, leaning forward intently. “Daughter of the Duke of Kenilworth, now why didn’t I think of her sooner! She’d be a great fit.”

Penny looks at the slide appraisingly. “She’s got a Bachelor’s degree in animal biology with a minor in photography. She likes dressage, traveling, and ballet. I’d say she’s the best candidate by far.”

I stare up at the picture on the screen, a hesitant smile blooming.

Agatha, huh?

* * *

Agatha’s even prettier in person.

We’re strolling down the beach together, occasionally shooting shy glances at each other. Agatha has her heels in her hand so she can walk barefoot in the sand, the blustery wind making her long blonde ponytail and the ends of her coat flutter.

We’ve been on a couple of dates already, but this’ll be the first one where we’re out in public. Her parents, Welby and Helen, followed us from a distance along with Mitali and some of our security.

It’s always a big deal when I leave the palace. Blokes with shades herd me around while the paparazzi swarm me, trying to get shots of me getting in and out of cars. I can actually see a camera crew at the end of the beach, waiting for us. We wave at them, Agatha’s smile as lovely as the rest of her.

We’re about to keep going when the wind suddenly whips her silk scarf off from around her shoulders and sends it tumbling away behind us.

“Hang on, I got it!” I say before taking off after it.

“Wait, Simon! A prince shouldn’t run after a scarf!” Agatha fretted from where I left her.

I finally manage to catch it, but I trip in the sand and fall arse-over-elbow in the process. Agatha comes running and gracefully falls to her knees next to me. “Simon! Are you alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” I say with a laugh, sitting up to rub the back of my head awkwardly. “S’not the worst tumble I’ve ever taken.”

She still looks worried, so I loop the scarf around her neck for her and give her a smile. “You should probably put a knot in that, so it doesn’t fly off again.”

Agatha smiles, blushing prettily. I can hear camera shutters going crazy in the distance, so I know this’ll probably be all over the news by nightfall. But that was the point, I guess.

We have more dates like that over the course of the next few days, mostly around the palace. We do things like take walks and play badminton. (I’m shit at it but she’s brilliant.)

I learn that Agatha’s family has a long history of arranged marriages. Welby and Helen’s marriage had been arranged, and so had their parent’s marriage, and so on. She says she doesn’t mind the idea of marrying a bloke she’d just met.

 _“It takes the hassle out of trying to find a husband,”_ she’d said simply.

I also learn that she’s studying to become a veterinarian and is a competitive showjumper. She tried to get me to go for a ride with her, but I chickened out. Horses are bloody terrifying and I don’t like riding them unless I absolutely have to. I felt like a tosser for it, but she didn’t seem to mind. She just suggested that we go for a walk in the garden instead.

Things would be great if it weren’t for one thing—living under the same roof as Baz was slowly driving me round the bend.

I’m on edge, constantly looking over my shoulder. I keep expecting him to pull something at any moment. Because Baz was definitely going to pull something now that he was in the palace. It was just a matter of time, and a matter of catching him in the act.

I’ve actually taken to following him around the palace, trying to get an idea for what his plan might be. So far all I’ve found out is that he eats like a bird during mealtimes, drinks his tea with ridiculous amounts of cream and sugar, avoids the sun like the bloody vampire he is, and he’s always reading but his taste in books is shit. (The other day, I saw him sitting in the garden reading _The Bell Jar_ like a pretentious twat.)

It was all extremely annoying, but none of it was exactly _evil_ , was it?

I don’t get it. What’s his ploy? To have me be so tense with anticipation that I go mad? Because if it is, then it’s working.

I only ever catch him doing one thing that’s even vaguely suspicious. Every time I come anywhere near him when I’m with Agatha, Baz stops whatever he’s doing and walks away. Just up and leaves without so much as a snipe or a sneer.

It should be a relief honestly, Baz leaving me alone for once. Why, then, did I find it so bloody irritating?

**BAZ**

Snow is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

He clearly suspects that I’m up to something by the way he’s been tailing me like he expected to catch me red-handed with the crown jewels or some such nonsense. It’s equal parts irritating and adorable.

However, what’s entirely irritating is the fact that I can’t turn around without bumping into him and Wellbelove. I have to constantly see them strolling about the palace arm-in-arm while casting one another bashful glances.

It’s more than I can stomach.

**SIMON**

After nearly a week of dates with Agatha, Mitali knocks on my door one night. I invite her in and we sit on my couch. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares so intensely at my coffee table that I’m afraid it’s going to catch fire.

“Simon,” she finally says, turning to pin me with a grave look. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

She takes out what looks like a floral silk handkerchief folded into a neat square.

I take the handkerchief dubiously. “Uh, thanks, but it’s not exactly something I’d’ve chosen for myself.”

“Unfold it.”

I unfold it and my jaw drops.

Inside is a silver ring with an absolutely massive diamond.

“It’s your great-grandmother’s engagement ring,” Mitali says quietly as I hold it up to catch the light. “Her marriage had been arranged too, and she and your great-grandfather managed to stay married for 57 years. Perhaps it’ll bring you luck.”

I want to thank her but the lump in my throat keeps me from saying anything, so I just throw my arms around her instead.

I think she understands what I wanted to say anyway.

* * *

Agatha says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! I love hearing from you guys, it always makes my day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) for being the best and letting me whine at her about tenses.

**BAZ**

“Prince Simon has managed to find a fiancé within a week,” I state matter-of-factly.

For his part, my father doesn’t seem overly concerned. He continues to sip his tea and read _The Record,_ Watford's only newspaper, duly ignoring the front page headline exclaiming “A Royal Engagement!” over a picture of Snow and Wellbelove holding hands and waving at a cheering crowd. I do my best not to look at it either.

We’re in my father’s room, choosing to have our breakfast brought up to us as opposed to eating with our hosts in order to converse privately. He folds the paper and places it on the coffee table in front of him, humming consideringly. “I’ll admit that this is unfortunate, but not impossible. Lady Agatha Wellbelove being Prince Simon’s betrothed could possibly work in our favor.”

“How so?”

He takes another sip of his tea. “Lady Agatha is The Duke of Kenilworth’s only child and he’s fiercely protective of her, to the point that she’s led quite a sheltered life. This paired with her family’s history of arranged marriages, she’s bound to have inclinations towards the romantic. If someone were to come along and show her what a real relationship could be like, a relationship filled with heat and passion, then she’ll surely call off the wedding.”

I frown in confusion, then the implication of my father’s words finally sinks in. I shoot to my feet. “You can’t possibly mean for _me_ to—”

“Oh, but I do, Basilton,” he says stonily.

I look away, jaw clenching. I'd say that my being gay was a sore subject between my father and I, but that would imply that he acknowledged it. And he didn't. Ever since I came out to him when I was nineteen, he's been deftly sidestepping any hint or mention of it.

That wasn't to say that I made my sexuality common knowledge. It was no one's business but my own and the gossip-mongers were bad enough as it was. (Not to mention that if it _were_ common knowledge, it'd be all the more difficult to hide my pathetic crush on Snow.)

"This is actually as close as my father has ever gotten to directly addressing it, and it's in a situation where he's asking me to ignore that part of myself."

The silence drags on, taut and uncomfortable. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't for my father to sigh wearily, or for his steely gaze to erode into something soft. “Basilton, I may not say it often but I’m proud of you,” he says quietly, his gaze unwavering, “I’m proud of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be _so proud of you._ I hope you know that.”

I slowly sit back down on the couch, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat.

“I understand that this situation is… less than ideal, but I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t know you to be clever and resourceful.”

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.

He looks at me for a long moment. “We’ll think on it. Perhaps we should phone Fiona. I’m sure that between us, we can come up with something.”

I nod again, both cursing my own weakness and feeling immensely grateful.

**SIMON**

I'm sitting on the palace stairs with a book, trying to hide from Mitali. She keeps wanting me to look over wedding details and I’d really rather not. The book is to stop me from thinking, but it isn't really helping. I stare down at the page in front of me but the words all blend together into an incomprehensible mess. I snap the book shut and sigh, leaning back on the banister behind me.

I’m getting married. And I don’t think I want to.

I don’t get it, why wouldn’t I want to get married? It’s what normal guys did: meet a nice girl, get married, and have loads of kids. It was what I’d always wanted for myself, something normal. So then why did the thought feel so heavy?

It couldn’t be Agatha. She’s nice, talented, and really pretty. Any guy would kill to have the attention of a girl like her. Why wouldn’t I want to marry her?

“Think any harder and you might cause yourself an injury, Snow,” comes a familiar voice from around the stairs. Sure enough, Baz comes striding into view, looking as irritatingly perfect as ever in a button-up shirt that is a shade of red so dark it looked almost black. (It’s probably from a designer with a name I can’t even pronounce, the posh prat.)

“What, Baz,” I grunt, not caring that I sound like the caveman he always accuses me of being. I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking too, by the way his lip curls.

“Well, I would’ve been on my merry way if the stairs weren’t currently being blocked,” Baz states coolly.

“There’s another set of stairs over there, use those.” I use my book to gesture over towards the identical staircase that mirrored this one on the other side of the foyer.

“I’d rather use these.”

I squint at him suspiciously. “Why? Your room’s on the other side.”

“Very astute, Snow,” he sneers, “Now move.”

“Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” He says primly, neatly stepping over my outstretched legs. I scramble to my feet, book forgotten on the steps, and chase after him.

“What are you up to, Baz?” I ask stubbornly.

“Don’t you have a fiancé to go bother,” he mutters bitterly.

“Not right now, no.”

He whips around. “What?”

“Agatha’s in London,” I say with a shrug. “She had to take care of some stuff back home and won’t be back for a bit.”

A strange look flashes across his face for the briefest of moments before it goes carefully blank and he keeps climbing. I follow, trying to get ahead of him to get another look at his face, but his long bloody legs make that hard. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, now leave me alone.”

“No, really, what’s—”

He turns around sharply. We’ve reached the top of the stairs and I’m instantly reminded of the incident from a month ago that left my nose slightly crooked. The look on his face says he must remember it too. I tense warily in case he tries the same thing twice, but he just closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and keeps walking.

I cut him off at the landing before he can get any farther. “Where are you going?”

“What will it take for you to leave me alone?” He snaps impatiently and I open my mouth to snap back when I hear servants hurrying around and calling my name. Panicking, I grab Baz and shove him through the first door I see and hurry in after him. It turns out to be a supply closet. It’s dark, cramped, and one of the protruding shelves is poking into my back uncomfortably.

 _“What do you think you’re—”_ he starts, sounding alarmed, but I shush him and press my ear to the door. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear footsteps run past us. I turn to face him with some difficulty. It really is too cramped in here for two grown men, so much so that even when I put my back to the shelves on the wall opposite to his, we’re still practically chest to chest.

Baz fumbles around on the wall until he finds a light switch. _“Would you care to explain what it is you think you’re doing?”_ he hisses.

I turn the lights off again in case a servant notices them and comes to investigate. “I’m hiding,” I whisper back.

He turns the lights on. “What could you possibly be hiding from that necessitates shoving me into a bloody cupboard?”

I flip the lights off. “From Mitali. If I have to look at another cloth napkin, I'm gonna go _spare.”_

“Oh, _of course,”_ he scoffs as he pointedly flips the lights back on, “because that makes perfect sense! Why must you always follow your baser instincts instead of using the brain you keep insisting you have?”

I hit the lights angrily. _“What’s your problem?”_

“You,” he says with an aggrieved sigh. “Always you.”

I get in his face to growl a retort when the door opens and Baz immediately shoves me away, the shelf behind me digging painfully into my back. One of the younger maids, Marguerite, lets out a squeak before turning bright red, apologizing for the intrusion, and closing the door again.

Baz rounds on me, eyes flashing. “Now look at what you've done!”

I frown, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“The whole palace is going to think we were—!” He stops and runs a hand over his mouth in agitation. “I have to fix this.”

“Fix _what?”_ I cry exasperatedly.

He just pushes past me and opens the door so we both practically tumble out of the closet. He straightens quickly and stalks away in the general direction of his room, leaving me to stare after him open-mouthed.

Seriously though, what was he on about?

**MITALI**

“Come in,” I say at the rap on my office door.

Simon enters and throws himself into the chair in front of my desk, looking distinctly surly. I sigh. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation for either of us.

“I’m sure you know why I called you here,” I say in a measured tone.

“Whatever Baz said is utter bollocks,” he says hotly.

I peer at him over my glasses until he squirms. “Well, it’s less about what Lord Wesperlin might’ve said and more about what Marguerite saw.”

He actually has the cheek to appear bewildered at that. “What did she see?”

“Really, Simon,” I say with a disappointed sigh, “I’m surprised at you for behaving like this. I understand that this is a stressful time for you and that I clearly haven’t been the most attentive guardian. I should’ve seen the signs, really, they were all there—”

 _“What is going on with everyone?”_ He suddenly groans out in aggravation, stunning me silent. “First the maids can’t even _look_ at me without giggling, then Ebb puts a hand on my shoulder saying that she’s there to talk _‘as someone who understands’,_ and now you’re giving me the most cryptic bloody lecture in existence! What did Baz say? He’s spreading some embarrassing lie about me, isn’t he?”

I stare at the aftermath of his tirade, eyes wide. Well. It looks like we may have misunderstood. That was a little too sincere to be an act, and Simon is a lot of things, but a good liar was not one of them.

I smile fondly. But he _was_ amazingly oblivious, bless him.

**BAZ**

“I’ll do it,” I say resolutely. “I’ll woo Wellbelove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite scenes in the movie so I hope I did it justice. Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big fat thank you to my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) for seriously being the best.

**SIMON**

I’m amazingly shit at archery.

I let loose another arrow and it goes wide, missing the target completely and embedding itself into a nearby tree. I lower my bow, running a hand through my hair in frustration. Coach Mac and I are in the garden where he’s set up a target for me to shoot at, but I’ve been out here for half an hour and haven’t even _nicked_ it yet. He keeps trying to explain what I’m doing wrong, saying shit like “use your mouth as an anchor”, as if that made any bloody sense. 

Apparently, there’s this tradition where I have to shoot a flaming arrow at a ceremonial ring on the eve of my coronation. It’s supposed to be symbolic for lighting my own eternal flame. (At the rate I’m going though, I couldn’t light an eternal flame if you gave me an eternal book of matches.)

I knock another arrow and release, this time it arcs too high and disappears. I wince when I hear the tell-tale sound of shattering glass. The next one goes zooming through a low hedge to my right where it’s followed immediately by a yelp, a thump, and a loud curse. 

I drop my bow and sprint towards the hedge, veering sharply around it. I look around frantically for the victim of my stray shot. Someone was sprawled out on the ground behind a bench and I jog over to them, apology at the ready. It comes out as a bark of laughter instead at the sight that greets me.

Baz lies flat on his back in the grass, his legs still up on the bench like he'd toppled over backwards. He's thoroughly rumpled like I've never seen him, his normally neat hair a tousled mess falling into his eyes, and his dress shirt's come untucked to reveal a sliver of pale stomach and jutting hip bones. A book lay open several feet away, its pages fluttering in the breeze. My arrow is firmly lodged into the tree next to his bench, still quivering slightly.

“Alright, there, Baz?” I ask, trying to suppress another laugh and failing miserably.

He props himself up on his hands and gives me a glare so venomous that if looks could kill, I’d’ve keeled over on the spot. Grinning, I go over to help him to his feet only to have my outstretched hand slapped away like I’d expected it to be. 

“Christ, Snow,” he snaps, clambering to his feet and pulling down the hem of his rucked up shirt haughtily. “Just because you can’t shoot an arrow to save your life doesn’t mean you’re allowed to endanger everyone else’s.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say cheerfully, still smiling. It was nice to see that even Baz had his off moments. He gives me another withering glare before running a hand through his hair, smoothing it back to its usual style. 

“Why do you wear it like that,” I ask before I can stop myself. 

He shoots me a narrow-eyed look. “What are you talking about?”

“Your hair. Why do you always slick it back?” 

He sniffs. “How is that any of your business?”

“I dunno, I guess it isn’t,” I shrug, putting my hands in my pockets and rocking on my heels. “I just think it looks better when you wear it down.”

I have a split second to see his grey eyes widen before Coach Mac’s head appears over the hedge. “There you are, Prince Simon,” he says, sounding relieved. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I was just—” I turn around to gesture at Baz, but he’s gone. I glance around until I spot his back striding steadily towards the palace. 

**BAZ**

The following morning, I spend far too long glaring into the mirror and agonizing over whether to slick my hair back or wear it down. (I slick it back because I’m simultaneously a contrary bastard and a filthy coward.)

**SIMON**

“Do I have to do it?” I groan from where I’ve flopped face down on my couch. 

“Yes,” Mitali says patiently from where she sits in a chair opposite me, “you do. It’s tradition.”

“This place has too many bloody traditions,” I mutter darkly into the cushions.

Mitali says that I apparently have to review the royal guard of Watford, which is a fancy way of saying I have to look them over while riding past them on horseback. Watfordians love doing everything on horseback. They were all practically _born_ on a saddle. My mother had been especially gifted, having been known far and wide for her skills as a rider. Which is why I try to ride in public as little as possible. I don’t want the country to know that Queen Luciana’s son is not only rubbish at riding, but also afraid of his own damn horse. (Which I am.) (Dragon is _terrifying.)_

Dragon is the horse that I chose for myself when I first got to Watford. I picked him because he looked so impressive, being all-black and massive. I still say that I shouldn’t have been allowed to pick for myself. Not only do I know fuck-all about horses, but I managed to pick the only horse in existence that probably hates me more than Baz does. I can’t get near him without him kicking and rearing. He has to be bribed with apples and sugar cubes before he’ll let me on his back. The last time I rode him he saw a snake and panicked, nearly bucking me off. 

And now I’m gonna have to lead a ceremony where I’ll have to ride him in front of everyone. Bloody perfect.

The day comes and I ride up to the ceremony in my riding gear made up of an olive green tweed riding coat, tan breeches, and brown riding boots. (Penny says I look dashing. I say I look like a poncy pillock.) 

I take a deep breath and pat Dragon’s neck. “Alright boy,” I say nervously, “easy does it, now.”

He rears his head at my touch, yanking on his reins. It doesn’t inspire much confidence.

The guard stands in two perpendicular lines facing each other with enough room for Dragon and I to ride down the middle. I lead him through slowly while my riding instructor, Emil, walks to my left. I nod at the guard and the crowd gathered as I pass. I do a double-take when I see Baz standing next to Penny and Agatha. Our gazes lock as I ride by and his grey eyes are magnetic, pulling me in so I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and then Dragon is suddenly rearing back, squealing in fear and bucking wildly. One moment I’m holding on with everything I’ve got and the next I’m in a crumpled heap on the ground. I look up to see my bodyguards along with members of the Watford guard rushing over to see if I’m alright. I’m pulled to my feet by too many hands and once it’s clear that I’m alright, the crowd’s murmurs of concern change into murmurs behind hands and even into smatterings of derisive laughter. 

I find myself pushing past the crowd around me and sprinting for the palace, biting my lip hard enough to hurt. I don’t really know where I’m going until I get there, collapsing onto my bench in the garden. 

My absolute favorite spot in the garden is a bench under a massive tree and surrounded by rose bushes. The rose bushes block you from view of the rest of the garden and the tree offers the perfect amount of shade. I love sitting under it with some cherry scones and a book, ignoring the rest of the world for a while.

(Baz had, of course, found my bench within his first week of staying in the palace and he’d made it clear that nothing short of exile would keep him off of it. I’d been sorely tempted, but Penny vetoed the idea.)

I sit on the bench, watching as the rose bushes in front of me slowly turn into a watery smear of pink and green. I should be used to it by now, really. I’ve cocked up so often that I’ve turned it into a fucking artform. I just needed to add _“can’t ride a bloody horse”_ to my long list of failures. 

I try not to think of my mum. She’d ridden so gracefully in those videos Mitali showed me. She and her horse had been so in sync it was like they were extensions of each other. What would she think of me if she’d seen what’d happened today? Would she be ashamed? Angry? Would she—

“You shouldn’t hide,” comes Baz’s quiet voice, “it only makes them gossip more.”

I turn away, wiping my eyes furiously. “What do you want?”

“Just think,” Baz says with the hint of a smirk, “if you get a few more people together, you can start your own rodeo.”

“Fuck off, Baz,” I say roughly, clenching my fists at the break in my voice.

He's quiet for a moment. “That was uncalled for, I’m sorry.”

 _“Bullshit,”_ I shoot to my feet and round on him furiously, tears still falling despite my anger. “You’re not sorry, you’re _never_ sorry! You don’t give a shit about anyone else but yourself! And I fucking get it, alright? I cocked up again! I don’t need you to fucking rub it in, so for once in your life can you just leave off?”

I storm away before he inevitably finds the one shitty thing to say that’ll make me feel even worse about myself, wiping my eyes as I go.

**MALCOLM**

“You were quite right, Emil,” I say, eyeing the man in front of me.

He counts his earnings, nodding. “Aye, Dragon’s always been right terrified of snakes. All it took was one look at the rubber one I had in my bag and—”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupt him impatiently, “excellent work, now be sure to keep it between us.” I cast a surreptitious look around the stables in case he’s been overheard, but they’re empty save for us and the horses.

He gives me a bow and a toothy smile. “Of course, Your Grace. Just know that Lord Wesperlin has supporters here in the palace.”

I smirk. “Thank you, Emil.”

**MITALI**

I pause in the hallway, my mission to call the Prime Minister of Denmark briefly forgotten. The loveliest music drifted down the hall, the sound delicately melancholic. I can’t help but go over and quietly open the door to one of the palace’s many sitting rooms where the music is originating from. I raise my eyebrows in surprise when I discover the source. 

Young Lord Wesperlin stands playing the violin with his back to me, his bow deftly dancing across the strings and producing a beautifully somber melody. 

“That was lovely,” I say softly as the song comes to an end.

For his part, he looks unsurprised to find that he has an audience. He simply turns to me and gives me a nod. “Prime Minister.”

“Pardon the intrusion, My Lord,” I say with a deep bow, “I was unaware you played.”

“When the mood strikes me,” he replies with a sad little smile.

“My Lord, would you mind if I asked you a question?” I can’t help but say, having caught him alone and away from prying eyes.

He gives me a look that’s politely indifferent, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes. “Not at all,” he says, gesturing for me to sit on the couch opposite the one where his violin case lay. 

I get straight to the point. “Why are you so against Prince Simon becoming king?”

He pauses in placing his violin in its case for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “My father is of the opinion that Prince Simon doesn’t know the people.”

“And you feel you do,” I ask, probing. “Know the people?”

“Yes,” he states plainly. “I was born here and I went to primary school here. I am a true Watfordian. Prince Simon didn’t know he was Watfordian until he was eighteen and, to be perfectly frank, three years is hardly enough time to really get to know a country and its people.”

“Well,” I add diplomatically, “I happen to think that Prince Simon would make a great ruler. He’s noble, caring, sedulous to a fault—”

“I know that,” he murmurs distractedly as he clasps his violin case shut. 

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “You do?”

He freezes, then sighs as if realizing he’s said too much. “Yes, I do. But answer me this: How can one rule a people one does not know?”

“Touché,” I answer wryly. “However, I have a feeling that that won’t be a problem for Prince Simon for very much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what am I gonna do with these boys? 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, hearing from you guys is actually the best.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday everyone! I've decided to give you chapter 7 a bit early, as a treat. ;)
> 
> My usual heartfelt thanks to my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) for letting me fret at her about this chapter!

**SIMON**

“Lady Stainton, it’s great to see you again! How’s Pierre?”

“He’s doing wonderfully, Your Highness, thank you for asking!”

I mingle about the garden party the palace is throwing, doing my best to remember the crash course on Important People Penny had put together for me. I’d spent all week reviewing who’d be attending and what I should know about them. According to Mitali, Baz apparently thought I _“didn’t know the people enough to rule them.”_ Well, I’ll just have to prove him wrong, won’t I?

I walk up to Rhys Pratt and Gareth Sunderley, the sons of the Earls of Wessex and Dowley respectively. I know them without needing to be quizzed first, being guys my own age that I usually hung around with during social functions. I chat with them for a while, watching with amusement as Gareth tries to, once again, defend one of his ridiculous belt buckles. (Rumour has it that he has one made special for every occasion. I happen to know that rumour was, in fact, true.)

“Hey,” Rhys says suddenly, gesturing with his head towards the entrance of the garden. “Look at who just got here.”

“Who?” I say, peering around. I immediately see who he’s talking about. Baz has just walked in, a pretty blonde girl on his arm. “It’s the wannabe king with Lady Amelia.”

“Oh,” I say faintly, my eyes glued to where Baz’s date clutches at his arm. There’s a burning in my chest that makes me put down the tea cake I’d been eating. I feel sick all of a sudden. “Is… Is she his girlfriend or something?”

“Lord Wesperlin doesn’t have girlfriends,” Rhys says dismissively, “He has _dates.”_

“Hot ones,” Gareth adds.

Rhys turns to me. “Why, do you talk to him much?”

“Only when I absolutely have to,” I mutter darkly, and they laugh.

After I’ve done enough mingling, I take Agatha for a walk about the garden and pointedly go in the opposite direction of Baz and his _date._ Agatha has her camera with her today and I distract myself by asking her for a photography lesson.

“You just point and shoot, right?” I say, looking at a nearby hedge through the camera’s viewfinder.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” she says wryly.

I point the camera at her and she tries to block it with her hand, laughing. “Oh no, Simon, you’re going to make me look atrocious!”

“C’mon, just one picture,” I say, trying to get around her hand so I can take the most unflattering picture possible.

She stops walking suddenly, her laughter disappearing. I turn the camera around and spot why. We stand at a crossroads in the garden path, nearly bumping into another couple. Namely, Baz and Lady Amelia. I lower the camera, scowling.

There’s an awkward beat of silence before Baz introduces Lady Amelia.

“Please, call me Minty,” she says to Agatha as they get acquainted. She greets me with a bow of her head and I nod at her curtly while completely ignoring Baz.

Baz steps forward, saying, “Lady Agatha, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He takes her hand and places a kiss on it, glancing up at her through his eyelashes. Agatha’s cheeks go rosy and I scowl harder.

“Well, if you’ll excuse us,” I say abruptly as I try to lead Agatha away.

“Leaving so soon, _Prince Simon?”_ I hear the sneer in Baz’s voice and it makes me freeze, hackles up instantly.

I whip around and glare daggers at him. “You got something to say?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why, of course not,” he says dryly, “What makes you say that?”

“That sodding tone in your voice,” I growl.

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean, _Prince Simon.”_

I take a step towards him, ready to channel the awful feeling I’ve had in my chest all day into pure anger. The tension between us is thick, the air practically statically charged. I’m absolutely fuming but Baz just looks bored, like this whole situation was beneath his notice. It was _infuriating._

The silence must’ve been uncomfortable, because both Agatha and Lady Amelia— _Minty—_ react like any well-bred ladies who’ve run into an uncomfortable silence would: they fill it with pointless chatter.

“Lady Agatha, you simply _must_ tell me who did your shoes. They’re lovely!”

“Oh, thank you! I bought them from the most charming little boutique when I was on holiday in Argentina.”

“ _Argentina._ I hear the horseback riding is wonderful there!”

“Oh, do you ride?”

And they’re off, the stilted politeness disappearing in favor of actual blooming friendship. They excuse themselves and wander away, comparing showjumping careers, but I hardly notice.

My eyes are on Baz.

**BAZ**

Damn it all, I was supposed to be wooing Wellbelove, not antagonizing Snow. Am I so weak-willed that I can’t pass up an opportunity to incense him? (The answer, unequivocally, is yes.) Oh well, in for a penny. I walk away, confident that he’ll follow me yet still feel a thrill of satisfaction at hearing his clomping footsteps coming after me.

I walk until we reach a more secluded part of the garden. Tall hedges block us from prying eyes, the sounds of the party a distant hum. A water fountain lay at the center, lily pads floating tranquilly across its surface. This is as good a place as any to provoke Snow until he goes off. I’d rather not do so publicly; it’ll make wooing Wellbelove more difficult if she witnesses me being outright rude to Snow.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?”

I smirk, but quickly convert it into a long-suffering look before I turn around. Being calm in the face of his bluster always gets under his skin much faster than outright sneering.

“What was that back there?” He demands.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

 _“With Agatha,”_ he says through gritted teeth.

I raise an eyebrow. “I was being polite, Snow. Perhaps you should try it sometime.”

“Stay away from her,” he growls fiercely. I give him an unimpressed look but scowl internally. Is he that attached to Wellbelove already?

I smile through the jealousy that lay bitter on my tongue. “No, I don’t think I will. Perhaps Wellbelove and I will become good friends. _Very_ good friends.”

We’re suddenly chest to chest, Snow having grabbed my lapels in order to pull me in. It’s a position I’m familiar with, having been in it countless times before. I wait for the snarls and bluster that usually follow, but they never come.

My heart thrums in my chest. Something’s different. The tension in the air is thick, not with animosity, but with something else. Something that feels far more dangerous. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the lack of distance between us, of how I could count the pale stubby lashes surrounding his unexceptionally blue eyes.

Of how said unexceptionally blue eyes were currently focused on my mouth.

A moment later it faintly occurs to me that I might’ve just cost myself the throne, but I don’t give a single flying rat’s arse because Simon is kissing me.

**SIMON**

The burning in my chest had been unbearable before. Now it feels more like a bonfire, crackling pleasantly and warming me up from the inside out.

**BAZ**

I should pull away, stop this. And I will, once I’m no longer a puddle on the floor.

**SIMON**

Baz's lips are colder than the lips of the girls I've kissed in the past. Is it because he’s a guy?

_I’m kissing a guy._

I’m kissing _Baz._

I push away from him suddenly, panting. Baz’s hair has come loose, falling in a lazy wave over his forehead. The sight almost has me leaning in again. I stumble a few steps back, hoping more distance will help clear my head. (It doesn’t.)

“I— You— _What are you playing at?”_ I sputter, flustered. I run a hand over my mouth in order to wipe away the phantom press of his lips. (It doesn’t work.)

It takes him longer to snap out of whatever insanity came over both of us, but when he does, his prattish attitude comes back full-force. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow, _you_ kissed _me!”_

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

I grab him again, glowering. “Why would I do that?”

He glowers right back, struggling in my grip. “How would I know? _Now let me—”_

He gives an almighty yank and in trying to keep my hold on him I overbalance, sending us both careening into the fountain.

Baz and I emerge simultaneously, both of us gasping and spluttering. I flail around for a moment as I struggle to get my bearings, my hip and shoulder throbbing from where I’d bashed them on the hard fountain bottom.

I turn to Baz, reaching for him despite myself. “Hey Baz, are you—”

Baz sits up, wipes water from his face, and gives me an absolutely lethal glare. “Snow, you absolute lout, now look at what you’ve done!”

His black suit jacket is a wrinkled mess and the red dress shirt underneath clings to him like a second skin, his matching red tie thrown over one shoulder. He should look ridiculous, but of course he doesn’t. I have to force myself not to stare as he clambers to his feet.

“I’m sending you a bill for the suit,” he snaps before stomping off, his shoes squelching comically as he goes.

**MITALI**

Simon is soaking wet. Because of course he is.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, attempting to abate an oncoming headache. “Do I _want_ to know?”

“Not really, no,” he mutters, squelching past me and into the palace.

**SIMON**

“Honestly Simon, I expected better from you,” admonishes Mitali, looking deeply disappointed. I lie on the couch in her room in my pyjamas, ears burning in shame.

News of our dip in the fountain had spread quickly. No one saw what happened exactly (thank the sodding lord for _that_ ), but loads of people saw us going back into the palace soaking wet and had put two and two together.

Mitali stands over me, arms crossed and a frown on her face. “Your rivalry with Lord Wesperlin is seriously getting out of hand. First it was all the squabbling, then there was the incident last month, and now this. You have your image to think about, Simon. There are people out there who think you’re not fit to rule and it’s your job to prove them wrong, not confirm their suspicions.”

“I’m sorry, alright? It was an accident! And Baz started it!”

“Can’t you two find something to resolve your arguments that doesn’t involve fighting?” She asks, pinching the bridge of her nose.

My mind immediately flashes to Baz’s lips on mine and I shake my head to dislodge the thought. “I’ll stop fighting with him when he stops being a git,” I grumble instead, my ears burning for a different reason now.

She sighs. “Go get some sleep. You’ll want to look fresh for the parade tomorrow.”

I clamber over the back of her couch and head for the door, but pause when she calls my name in a tone that promises trouble. She gives me a searching look that makes me shift uncomfortably. It feels like I’m being X-rayed. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” I say after a long moment, looking away.

She sighs again. “Goodnight, Simon.”

* * *

I close my bedroom door behind me and sag against it. I don’t like lying to Mitali, but I didn’t want to tell her what actually happened at the fountain. I haven’t told anyone, not even Penny, and that breaks our no-secrets pact. Everything’s so confusing and my head’s all jumbled up so I wouldn’t even know where to _start._ And it may be stupid, but I don’t want to say it out loud because it’ll make it feel more real somehow.

Baz and I kissed, and Baz said that I was the one to kiss him first. Is that true? How long have I wanted to kiss him? Because I realize now that I did want to kiss him then.

And that I kind of really want to do it again.

**BAZ**

I close my bedroom door and land on my couch with a weary sigh.

My father had thoroughly chewed me out for not only wasting the opportunity to cozy up to Wellbelove, but also for causing another scene with Snow. I took my scolding with dignity because he’s absolutely right, and also because I’m eternally grateful that he has no idea what actually happened between Snow and I.

The same thoughts that’ve been running through my head all evening wreak havoc now that I’m alone. Why had Snow kissed me today? Was it some freak impulse? A momentary lapse into madness? Did he find out about my wretched crush on him and decide to torment me?

Or was it something more?

I close my eyes, place the pads of my fingers gently on my lips, and ardently hope it’s the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, my favorite scene in the movie! Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started working again which means that I won't be able to keep up my bi-weekly posting anymore, so I'll be limiting my updates to just Wednesdays from now on. 
> 
> A big ol' thanks as always to my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) for being amazing!

**SIMON**

There’s a parade every year to celebrate Watford’s independence that goes down the main street of Pyrus, the capital city. It’s always been a pretty big deal, people coming from all over Watford to attend. This time will be especially overblown though, because I’m going to be a part of the parade itself for the first time. Since I’m now of age to take the crown, it’s tradition for me to ride in an open carriage in order to greet the people. Honestly, this is one tradition I don’t mind following.

I sit in my carriage, waving to the excited crowd that packs the street. I always love seeing the people of Watford, a cheery and hard-working lot made up mostly of farmers, fishermen, and shop owners. They all take pride in Watford; even now they’re waving tiny Watford flags and merrily singing along to the marching band playing Watford’s national anthem. Everyone’s having a great time.

Everyone except for that little boy over there. 

He looks to be about seven or eight and stands watching the parade solemnly. He has a look about him that I'm intimately familiar with. He's small and just on the wrong side of too thin. His clothes are clean, but too big for him and worn in like they'd been washed too many times for comfort. The dozen or so boys he's standing with all have similar attire, but unlike the first boy the other boys look excited, jumping up and down and waving their own flags while supervised by severe-looking nuns. They must be part of a care home or orphanage. 

Bewildered, I turn back to the first kid and quickly see why he looks so miserable. Two older boys were looming over him, clearly harassing him by the sneers on their faces and how he shrank in on himself.

I’ve seen this loads of times in the care homes I’d grown up in. Older boys would choose another boy, usually the one smallest for his age, and bully him for something to do. I’d always tried to stop them and got into loads of fights because of it. Even now, I can feel myself scowling as I watch. When the taller of the two bullies actually shoves the kid off of the milk crate he’d been standing on, I react without thinking.

“Stop the carriage,” I say suddenly, leaping out of it before it fully stops. I ignore the palace attendants calling my name and the murmurs from the crowd as I jog over to where I saw the kid go down. He lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, the other boys laughing meanly over him. I go and break it up, squatting down next to the smaller boy.

“Hey kid, you alright?” I ask as I help him up, dusting him off. He nods, goggling at me in wonder. 

“I’m glad,” I say as I cheerfully pat him on the shoulder, “What’s your name?”

“Marco,” he says shyly. 

I turn to the two stunned boys behind Marco and shoot them a challenging look. “Did I see you two bullying Marco here?” They both turn white and scurry away. 

Marco looks at me, awestruck, and I grin. “Hey Marco, you reckon you want to be a prince for today?”

“I can’t,” he says, his thin face falling, “I’m too small to be a prince.”

“Well, I say you’re the perfect size to be a prince! And if anyone doesn’t like it they can go through me,” I say, puffing out my chest. A smile slowly blooms on his face and I beam at him. 

I spot a nearby vendor selling plastic crowns and reach for my wallet. “How much for the lot of them?”

“We’ll take care of it, Your Highness,” says one of my bodyguards, waving over a palace attendant.

I turn to the rest of the boys. “What do you gents say, you want to be princes for today?” A cheer goes up as they all clamor to choose their crown. I grab a pointy golden one and place it on Marco’s raven curls, and it’s so big on him that it nearly falls into his eyes. I hold his hand as the marching band begins to play and we lead the rest of the boys in continuing the parade.

Mitali’s probably gonna lay into me for pulling another stunt so soon after my last one, but the big gap-toothed smile on Marco’s face makes it worth it.

**BAZ**

I watch from my seat in the crowd as Snow goes by, waving at the masses with a dazzling smile and the sun glinting in his tawny curls. A gaggle of orphans follow after him, wearing plastic crowns and huge smiles. A tiny boy clutches Snow's hand and alternates between waving at the crowd enthusiastically and staring up at Snow like he hung the moon. 

My father huffs next to me, unimpressed, but the people of Watford cheer. They sing the praises of their prince, who had just stopped the most important event in the country for the sake of one orphan. 

I smile, warmth filling my chest. He really is an idiot. 

**AGATHA**

“We should throw a charity gala,” says Simon out of the blue.

Penny and I stare at him. “You… _want_ to throw a gala?”

“Yeah, for the boy’s home in Pyrus. It looks like they could use more help.”

Penny hums consideringly, but I frown. “But what about our engagement party?” 

His face falls briefly, clearly having forgotten about it, then perks up hopefully. “Can we do both at once?”

I can’t help the wave of annoyance that washes over me. We absolutely _cannot._ “We can do the gala some other time. I’m sure it can wait until after the wedding.”

Simon frowns, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Those boys need help. They looked too peaky for my taste.”

“Why is this so important all of a sudden?” I say hotly, harsh words spilling out before I can stop them, “I’m sure they’re used to it by now.”

 _“That’s the problem!”_ Simon explodes, taking me aback. “They’re _used_ to it! Used to going to bed hungry, used to wearing clothes that don’t fit right, used to learning not to ask for more because they know they won’t get it! No one should be used to that!”

“Now really, that’s quite enough,” Penny says evenly as she gets in between us, “Simon has a point—”

“Oh, what a surprise,” I say to Penny acidly, glaring down at the hand she had casually placed on Simon’s chest. “You’re taking his side.”

 _“But,”_ she continues doggedly, pointedly dropping her hand, “Agatha is fully entitled to her opinion about her own engagement party.”

Only Penelope Bunce could take your side and still make you feel like you’re being scolded. 

“I need some air,” I say, storming out of the sitting room. Let them decide what they want together like they always do, I don’t care.

I debate calling Minty, but make a beeline for the library instead because I know Lord Wesperlin will be there. It always makes Simon so angry when I talk to Lord Wesperlin, and maybe I want to make him angry right now.

I know I’m being immature. Simon’s just being Simon, impossibly noble and giving everything to care for his people. I just wish that sometimes he’d give that level of care and attention to _me,_ like Lord Wesperlin does. 

I’m not stupid, I know that he’s using me to get to Simon. He only ever talks to me when Simon’s around. But he always listens to me like what I say matters, like I’m more than a pretty trophy for the noble prince.

**BAZ**

Wellbelove creeps through the library doors and I suppress a sigh. 

I know I’m supposed to be wooing her, but I somehow didn’t expect that she’d trail after me like a puppy. It served my purpose, but was rather annoying. 

Too bad Snow wasn’t here. I’ve taken to lavishing Wellbelove with attention when Snow is about in order to watch as he turns green with jealousy. (I can’t help but feel a thrill thinking that he might be jealous _of_ Wellbelove instead of _for_ her.) 

I may as well put some work in. She walks further in the room and I look up from my book in surprise, as if I’d just noticed her presence. I smile secretly at her. “Lady Agatha, always a pleasure.”

She gives me a wan smile and I raise an eyebrow. “Is something troubling you?”

She looks conflicted for all of a second before she gracefully slides into the chair opposite mine with a sigh. “It’s Simon,” she says morosely. 

_Trouble in paradise?_ “I’m happy to lend a listening ear.”

“He’s just so… _good._ It makes me feel like an utter villain for not being as good as he is. And then there’s Penny, who’s always stuck to his side like glue. It’s irritating.” 

I stop my eyebrows from climbing up my forehead, but only just. Good Lord, I actually _empathize_ with her. 

“I can see how that would be frustrating,” I say gently, leaning forward to level her with a serious look. She smiles and blushes, fluttering long eyelashes at me. I suppress another sigh. This really is quite tedious.

“I always have to follow along and stand close enough to look pretty at his side,” she goes on, “He wants to do _so much_ for everyone, for Watford, and I—”

“What do you want?” 

“What?” she says, clearly caught off guard.

“What is it that _you_ want, Lady Agatha?” I ask, genuinely curious. She complains about Snow's wants, but what of her own? What is she really after?

She’s silent for a long time. She looks adrift, like a lovely heroine in a Brontë novel. 

“I don’t know,” she says finally, “I don’t know what I want.”

**PENELOPE**

“That’s an awful idea, Si,” I say bluntly.

Simon frowns. “But I haven’t even finished telling you yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’re thinking of going over Agatha’s head and telling mum about converting your engagement party into a charity gala.”

He opens his mouth to deny it, but deflates at my unimpressed look. “How do you _do_ that?”

“Call it women’s intuition.” In reality, Simon was just so easy to read. He didn’t have a poker face, instead broadcasting his every thought and emotion for all the world to see. How he didn’t know this already, I don’t know, but I wasn't going to be the one to tell him. It was much more fun to have him think I was somehow psychic.

We walk down the hallway, coming back from a meeting with mum about the engagement party tonight. Agatha had been with us, but left immediately after, saying that she needed to get ready for tonight. Really it was because she and Simon weren’t talking to each other again. Frankly, I think they’re being ridiculous, but I’ll let them sort it out amongst themselves. 

Simon suddenly stops and I nearly crash into his back. Frowning, I peer around him to see what has him frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

Baz comes striding up to us, hands in his pockets and a bored look on his face. (Now Baz, _he_ has an impressive poker face.) He stops in front of us, giving my greeting and bow a cursory nod and focusing his attention on Simon. 

“Baz,” Simon greets stiltedly.

“Snow,” Baz offers in return.

They stare each other down, neither saying a word. They’re so intensely focused on one another that I’m sure I could wave a banner in their faces while singing the Watford National Anthem and neither of them would even blink in my direction. I huff a sigh and march away. Let them posture at each other if they’d like, I’ll have no part in it. (I still stay within earshot, just in case I have to break them up.)

“What are you doing here,” Simon asks suspiciously, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the party?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Baz shoots back.

They pace around each other, like they’re afraid to show the other their back. I roll my eyes. These two, honestly.

Baz suddenly turns to Simon, back ramrod straight, and formally says, “I’m loath to say it, but what you did at the parade was… it was rather decent of you.”

Simon stares at him for a moment, shocked. That’s almost _nice_ for Baz. “Thanks.”

They slowly pace around each other again, before Simon blurts out, “We’re serving sour cherry cupcakes, at the party. I helped Cook Pritchard make them.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Did you? Well, if Cook Pritchard supervised then I’m sure they’ll at least be tolerable.”

“Thanks,” Simon says again, heavily sarcastic. “Tolerable was what I was aiming for.”

Baz smirks. “Way to set the bar low.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Simon responds with a laugh and, wait, was that a _blush?_

They grin at each other until Myra, mum’s personal assistant, suddenly bursts into the hallway to inform us that the guests are starting to arrive.

I watch Simon hurry towards me with narrowed eyes. It appears that Simon broke our pact. 

He's in so much trouble.

**SIMON**

I’m in so much trouble.

I flop facedown onto my couch, mashing my still-burning face into a throw pillow. I should be getting ready for the party, but I couldn’t care less about that right now.

I know Penny’s standing over me with her arms crossed without having to look. I sit up on the couch and must look as wretched as I feel because her stern expression melts into one of concern. “What’s wrong, Si?” she asks gently, sliding onto the couch next to me and lightly placing a hand on my back.

I feel tears gather in my eyes before I can stop them and I mash my face into her shoulder. 

“Why did it have to be Baz?” I sniffle miserably, voice small. 

“Oh Simon,” she sighs as she hugs me close, stroking a soothing hand down my back, “you never do anything by halves, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry this is late. IRL stuff like work and the need to sleep got in the way. I hope you enjoy anyway!
> 
> A warm thank you to my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) for making me sound coherent. She's the best.

**BAZ**

The engagement party’s in full-swing, everyone laughing and chatting merrily with one another.

Everyone except for the betrothed couple, that is. 

It doesn’t escape my notice how they stand next to each other in such a way that makes the scant inches between them seem insurmountably vast, or how the answering smiles given to their guests’ well-wishes are decidedly stiff. I also make note of how they haven’t uttered a single word to each other all evening.

_ Interesting. _

I sip my champagne, idly musing whether I should go over to stir up that hornet’s nest when someone sidles up next to me. 

“Admiring the  _ happy couple?” _ says a very familiar voice. I turn sharply to see Fiona standing next to me wearing a skintight black dress and a wry smile. 

“Fiona,” I say in greeting, staunchly keeping my composure, “I was unaware you were back in Watford.”

My aunt Fiona lives in a little flat in London, proving that she never truly got out of her rebellious streak by spending her time collecting records and dating men well below her station. I go to visit her on occasion when I need a breather from everything. (Mostly when I need to get away from Snow.)

“I wanted to see how you were getting on,” she says with a smirk, clearly implying she meant she was curious about more than just my wellbeing. I’ve been keeping her posted with the details of the plan my father and I have put together but, in true Fiona fashion, she’s clearly grown impatient and has come to see things for herself. 

I take a sip from my champagne mildly. “It’s going rather well.”

“I can see that. But let’s move things along a bit more, shall we?” she says slyly.

A frisson of panic goes through me as she saunters over towards Snow and Wellbelove. I normally love seeing Fiona, but she can be decidedly ruthless in her approach and the situation with Snow is... delicate at the moment, in more ways than one. 

As I watch, she approaches them and seems to be congratulating them enthusiastically. So enthusiastically, in fact, that she drops her pocketbook right in front of Snow. Ever the bloody gentleman, he goes to pick it up for her but she waves him off with a laugh. She makes a big show of picking it up herself, her movements so deliberately sensual that men all around her cast her poorly concealed looks of appreciation. 

Snow actually  _ gapes _ at her, fully slack-jawed like an idiot. Wellbelove is clearly as unimpressed as I am if the deep scowl on her face is any indication. Fiona turns around, shooting me a wink before making her way over to the bar to get herself a drink. Snow and Wellbelove whisper heatedly at each other before Wellbelove stalks away, the skirt of her salmon pink cocktail dress billowing angrily around her.

I’m sorely tempted to go to Snow now that he’s alone, but I can’t with Fiona watching. (I’d come out to her before I’d come out to my father and she’d taken it in stride, but somehow I doubt that she’d take the news of my crush on my rival for the throne nearly as well.)

I grab another champagne flute from a passing server and head towards where Wellbelove is fuming in the corner of the room, heaving an almighty internal sigh as I go. 

She looks up at me in surprise as I approach and wordlessly offer her the flute of champagne. She gives me a small smile but it soon drops back into a sullen pout. 

“I always thought I was lucky,” she says quietly after a while, “that I was going to be in an arranged marriage.”

“How so?” I ask, curious.

She looks at her flute of champagne without really seeing it. “I thought it meant that I was guaranteed a happily ever after. I even managed to get engaged to a prince! But it’s not that easy, is it?”

“Snow’s not in the business of making things easy,” I say dryly. 

She gives a tinkling laugh at that. I smile, opening my mouth to plant the idea that she's better off without him, but the words die on my lips when Snow himself suddenly appears in front of us. He looks as magnificent as ever in a grey suit with a salmon pink tie and pocket square to match Wellbelove. (The thought of them being considered a matching set makes me want to break something.)

For his part, Snow looks rather surly, his hands in his pockets and shoulders slouching like a thug in formal wear. He looks so ridiculous that it makes me want to kiss him. (Again.) (Because I’m constantly elated when I remember that I already have.)

“Why Snow, what a pleasure,” I say with a smirk, deciding to rile him up a bit now that the opportunity has presented itself. “We were just talking about you.”

He looks straight at Wellbelove, not sparing me a glance. “Sorry about earlier. Do you want to dance?”

Wellbelove perks up at that, walking towards Snow with a smile. I frown, an uncomfortable feeling tightening in my chest at being blatantly ignored. 

I’ve been trying to be better about not being outright cruel to Snow lately. After the fountain, something changed. The animosity between us has tempered and shifted, turning into something else. Something exhilarating and terrifying and exceedingly fragile. 

But as I watch Snow walking away with Wellbelove on his arm, hurt gathering in my chest, I realize that I should’ve known better than to trust myself with something so delicate.

“For Wellbelove’s sake, I hope your skills have improved since your birthday,” I sneer callously at his retreating back. “She’ll need both of her feet if she hopes to lead you in some semblance of a dance.”

Snow freezes for a moment, and if this were any other time he would’ve whipped around and stalked towards me to growl in my face. Now, however, he simply heaves out a breath that makes his whole body sag slightly before straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, and continuing on.

I stand alone with the shattered pieces of that oh-so-fragile something between us surrounding me. Put there by my own hands of course, because I’m so afraid of Snow breaking my heart that I break it myself before he has the chance.

**PENELOPE**

I watch Simon walk away from Baz wearing a closed off expression I’ve never seen on his face before and see red. 

I march over to the doors I saw Baz go through. Baz stands alone on the balcony, arms leaning against the railing in front of him as he stares out at the gardens. He turns his head as I step outside and raises an eyebrow. “Was there something you needed, Bunce?”

“Yes, actually,” I say tightly, “I need to know what your intentions with Simon are.”

He turns around fully at that. “Intentions?”

“Don’t play coy with me!” I snap, stepping towards him angrily, “I am not someone to cross, title be damned! If you’re leading him on just to hurt him  _ I swear—” _

“Bunce, I assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you hadn’t noticed, Snow despises me.” The note of bitterness in his voice stops me short. He turns around again, leaning his hands on the railing in front of him. The lines of his back and shoulders are taut as a bowstring, displeasure roiling off of him in waves.

I drop my hands and sigh. So it’s like that, then. The pair of them, honestly.

“Apologize.”

He turns to frown at me. “What?”

“You said something shitty, didn’t you? Now go apologize to Simon.”

“And why would I take orders from you?” he sneers.

“Because I’m best friends with the bloke you fancy and can make him forgive you.”

His whole face shuts down, giving away nothing. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m infatuated with Snow.”

It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

His façade cracks and he shoots me a deadly glare. “If you even think of telling him—”

“Oh, I won’t. It isn’t my place. But I will say this: Apologize to him while you still can.”

“What makes you think he’ll forgive me?” He says it waspishly, but I can hear the barest plaintive edge to it.

I give him a knowing smirk. “Women’s intuition.”

**BAZ**

Bunce is irritatingly perceptive. Damn her. 

I pace on the balcony, my conversation with Bunce running through my head. She said she wouldn't tell Snow, but I know that her word doesn't mean much. She’s capable of anything if Snow’s wellbeing is threatened. Which means I don’t have much of a choice.

I stop pacing and run a hand over my mouth. I’d tried apologizing to him once before, but had gotten my head bitten off for my trouble. Bunce said that Snow would forgive me this time, however. What makes her so sure? Does she know something I don’t? Knowing Bunce, she more than likely does. 

There’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to apologize to Snow. (And if he doesn’t forgive me then I’ll have Bunce’s head.)

I make my way back into the party and glance around until I spot Snow with Bunce. He pouts at the floor while she speaks to him in a low voice. She looks up and gives me a curt nod before walking away, leaving Snow by himself. 

I grab another flute of champagne and down it in one go before making my way over to him, feeling like a man heading for the gallows.

I stop in front of him with my back to the room. “Snow, if we could have a word.”

He says nothing, just continues glowering to one side without looking at me. I take a steadying breath. “I wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier. It was needlessly cruel.”

His head snaps up and I brace myself for another tirade, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he looks at me like I grew a second head. “You’re…  _ apologizing?” _

“Yes, I am,” I snap uncomfortably. “Contrary to popular belief, I do indeed have a conscience.” 

He just stands there and gapes, and for a moment I think he’s going to  _ laugh _ at me. (I swear I’ll kill him if he does.) (No I won’t, but it’s the thought that counts.) But then his face clears and he gives me a smile so radiant that my heart actually skips a beat. 

“Brilliant! That—that’s brilliant,” he breathes, still smiling. 

“So, am I forgiven?”

He rolls his eyes before shoving me good-naturedly. “Yes, you prat, you’re forgiven.”

“Careful with the suit, Snow,” I say moodily as I desperately try to keep myself from grinning like a fool. “It was very expensive.”

“You wore your hair down, too,” he says with another sunny smile, “It looks nice.”

I look away, cursing my fair complexion to the ninth circle of hell when I feel myself going red.

I feel the blood immediately drain away again, however, when I see Fiona staring at us, her gaze sharp as jagged glass.

**FIONA**

“I can’t believe this!  _ You’re in love with him!” _ I fume as I pace back and forth in front of where he sits on the couch in Malcolm’s room. Malcolm stands to one side, glaring at Baz with a look of stony disapproval.

“Look, I don't know what you think you saw—”

“Oh, don’t try that with me, Basilton! I saw enough!” I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “What about the  _ plan? _ You were supposed to be wooing Wellbelove, not panting after Snow!”

A look of hurt flashes across his face for all of a microsecond before he puts on a blank mask worthy of any Pitch. He’d do you proud, Natasha. I, on the other hand... 

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Snow became king,” Baz states coolly.

I stop in my tracks at that. “What did you say?”

“He’s infuriatingly noble, so bullheaded that he doesn’t know how to quit, and he cares more about Watford than he does about himself to the point that he’s willing to marry someone that he’ll never love in the name of it.”

We were too easy on him, Tasha.  _ I _ was too easy on him. He’s your kid, and you were my big sister, how could I not spoil him? I knew he’d be nothing but trouble from the moment he could walk, yet he still became my favorite. And he knows it too, the cheeky bugger.

“So, what, you expect Snow to leave Wellbelove and marry you instead?” I say incredulously, “You’re willing to give up being king to be the  _ king’s fucking consort?” _

His mouth quirks into a cold, self-deprecating smile. “You won’t have to worry about that. Snow doesn’t care for me at all.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this kid. He’s as blind as he is addled.

“I think it best if we stop trying to sabotage Snow,” he says firmly.

“If you think that we’re just going to give up—”

“Is that what you really want, Basilton?” Malcolm says quietly, levelling Baz with a solemn stare. 

“Yes,” Baz says without hesitation.

There’s a tense moment of silence as Malcolm meets Baz’s unwavering gaze, deliberating. He then seems to come to a decision, his rigid posture relaxing with a sigh. “Then we’ll stop.”

“Oh, I don’t  _ believe _ this!” I cry out, throwing my hands in the air. 

“Thank you, father,” Baz says with a genuine smile before rushing out of the room.

I round on Malcolm, furious. “How could you just let him give up on the crown like that? I always knew you were weak, but  _ this—” _

Malcolm looks unfazed. “I just want Basilton’s happiness. I’m sure Natasha would’ve done the same.”

“I don’t believe this,” I say again, stalking out the door and nearly bowling over this little sprig of a maid in the hallway. I ignore her, pulling out my phone and looking up a number as I mutter darkly to myself.

I’m sorry Tasha, but the coddling stops here.

“Hello, is this  _ The Record? _ I’ve got a story for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! Hearing from you guys is always the highlight of my day!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK! Sorry for the long hiatus. Life got crazy and will, unfortunately, continue to be crazy for an indeterminate amount of time. Updates will be sporadic and slow going, but I am determined to see this fic to the end. I appreciate all of your guys' support, it's really meant a lot. I'd especially like to thank my beta [smudged-ink-writing](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/), she's a peach!
> 
> Now, onwards to the chapter!

**SIMON**

“That’s enough flaming ones for now, I think,” I say uneasily as some servants rush over with fire extinguishers to put out the patch of grass where my arrow had fallen.

I’m practicing my archery in the garden again for all the good it does me. I’m still utter rubbish at it, no matter how much I practice. Penny and Agatha had been with me at first, but had scurried up to the palace when a flaming stray shot nearly hit Agatha. She was fine, thank Christ, but the arrow had singed the hem of her skirt.

I lower my bow and run a frustrated hand through my hair when a shot goes wide and disappears into a rosebush, sending pink petals everywhere. _Why can’t I get it?_

“Stop torturing your curls, Snow. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

I whip around to see Baz stride up, hands in his pockets and a mischievous glimmer in his eye. He’d opted out of a suit jacket and tie today, leaving the first button of his light blue dress shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He also wore his hair down, some tucked behind one ear.

I swallow. He looks good.

Something changed after the engagement party, after he’d actually _apologized_ for saying something really shitty. We don’t fight as much now. We still fight—I don’t think either of us could ever just _stop—_ but it feels more like banter than aiming to hurt.

It’s been really nice, actually. Whatever “ _it”_ is.

“Need a hand?” he says, an amused lilt in his voice.

I open my mouth to automatically tell him to sod off, but what comes out instead is, “Yeah, alright.”

He reaches for an arrow and hands it to me before moving to stand right behind me, a hand resting lightly on my waist. “Ready?”

I nod jerkily, unable to speak all of a sudden. All of my attention has zeroed in on where he’s touching me.

“Okay, now take your stance,” he orders and I rush to obey, knocking my arrow and aiming at the ring I’d set up to serve as my target.

He lets out a snort from behind me. “Really, it’s a wonder you managed to loose an arrow at all.”

I’m about to break my stance and round on him in irritation, but jump at the feel of a hand suddenly on my bent elbow. “Lower this a bit.”

I shoot him a narrow-eyed look, still suspicious that he’s only here to make fun of me, but do as I’m told anyway.

“Now use your mouth as an anchor,” he says, and I nearly break my stance again.

“What does that even _mean,”_ I groan in exasperation.

“It means,” he says, amusement coloring his tone, “touch your mouth with your shooting hand, Snow.”

“Why didn’t Coach Mac just say that,” I grouse as I do just that.

He steps in close suddenly, my stomach doing a weird little somersault when I feel his chest press into my back. He grips my shoulder, and I follow the gentle pressure he applies until I’m in the position he wants. “Relax this hand,” he says while placing his other hand on the one I have around the bow, his fingers cool against my heated skin.

“Good,” he purrs in my ear when I do, and a shiver runs down my back.

“Breathe in,” he murmurs, and I obey without question. I feel dazed, like I’m under some sort of spell. _“And release.”_

I do, and the arrow whizzes through the ring and embeds itself into the backboard in a perfect bullseye.

My mouth falls open as I stand there, utterly gobsmacked. I’d _never_ managed to do that before!

“How’d that feel?” he asks with a smirk.

 _“Brilliant!”_ I exclaim, turning to grin up at him. He grins back, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how close we still are. And of where his chest presses into my shoulder.

“Brilliant,” I say again breathlessly as I’m captured by stormy grey eyes. Everything else falls away, nothing left but the two of us. I faintly wonder, not for the first time, if he has me under some sort of magical thrall. His eyes dart down to my mouth and I lean in slowly, my heart drumming a staccato rhythm in my throat—

Something dark suddenly passes over his eyes and he turns away. “I have to go.”

“W-what?” I stammer as the moment shatters abruptly like a champagne glass on pavement.

“My father and I are leaving,” he says quietly, “I’m here to pack my things.”

“I don’t— _what?”_ I say again, stepping away from him. “What’re you on about?”

He quirks his lips into a humorless smile. “With the wedding so close, I think it best that I bow out gracefully before then.”

Cold reality washes over me like a bucket of ice water. I’m getting married in less than a week. Which means we can’t do… whatever this is anymore.

“Oh,” I say, my chest clenching painfully. “Right.”

He extends a hand out wordlessly. We shake, and then stop shaking, but don't let go.

“Goodbye, Snow,” he says softly.

“Bye, then,” I say gruffly, not looking him in the eye as I slide my hand out of his and quickly turn to leave. I promised myself that I would never again cry in front of Baz Pitch, and I bloody well wasn’t going to break that promise now. Before I can get more than a few steps though, a gentle hand at my elbow stops me.

“Snow, I—” Baz starts to say then stops. His face clouds over, something warring behind his eyes. He must come to a decision because he clenches his jaw and steps in close. _“Simon._ Let me see you one last time before I go.”

I open and close my mouth, but no sound comes out. All I can do is stare into those grey eyes.

There’s movement out of the corner of my eye and we both turn to see one of my bodyguards coming towards us.

“I’ll find a way to meet you,” he says in a low, urgent voice. He gives me one last intense look before turning and striding away.

**PENELOPE**

“It’s all terribly romantic, isn’t it?”

“This is serious, Penny!” Simon groans from where he’s buried his face into his pillows. “What am I supposed to _do?”_

I shove at his leg until he moves it without looking up and I sit on the edge of his bed. “Well, what do you want to do?”

He finally comes up to throw me a petulant glare. “It’s not that easy.”

“But you do want to see him, don’t you?”

He flops over onto his back and stares at the ceiling with a deep frown.

I open my mouth to tell him to stop being so ridiculous, but pause at the odd tapping sound coming from the window. Was that a bird?

“Simon?” I say after a moment, peering outside.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll have to make your mind up quickly about seeing Lord Wesperlin.”

Simon sits up quickly, shooting me a bewildered look. “Why?”

“Because he’s outside, throwing pebbles at your window,” I drawl wryly.

**SIMON**

I scramble off my bed and rush over to the window, heart pounding. Sure enough, Baz stands outside in a poncy peacoat and— are those _jeans?_

“What are you _doing,”_ I whisper-shout at him, trying for anger but I can’t keep the smile off my face. “You’re going to get caught, you berk!”

“Oh, hush up and climb down the vine, Rapunzel, we’ve got a schedule to keep,” he says, smirking.

I flick him the V with a grin before ducking back into my room.

“What does he want?” Penny asks.

I rush past her to grab the leather jacket I threw onto the back of a chair, heart cartwheeling excitedly. “He wants me to climb down and go with him.”

“Go _where?”_

“Dunno,” I say cheerfully as I put my arms through the sleeves. “I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?”

She puts her hands on my chest before I can make my way over to the window. “Simon, stop and think for a moment. That sounds really risky.”

I frown. “You were the one who was trying to convince me to go see him.”

“Yes, but I meant _in the light of day,”_ she huffs, “not on some late-night clandestine romp. You don’t even know where you’re going!”

I take her hands and level her with a serious look. “Penny, everything I’ve ever done since I came to Watford was for the sake of other people. I don’t regret it, I love Watford and its people and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep everyone smiling. If that means marrying Agatha and becoming king, then so be it. But doing this, going with Baz, it’ll be something I’ll be doing for _me._ I don’t think I’ll regret it, even if we get caught.”

She looks conflicted for a long moment before finally letting out an almighty breath, shoulders sagging. “Fine, if that’s how you feel then I’ll stay here and cover for you.”

I break out into a huge smile and wrap her in a bear hug. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Just make sure you won’t regret this,” Penny says, hugging me back fiercely.

**BAZ**

He climbs down the vine lattice next to his window with all the grace of a drunken orangutan. His foot gets stuck twice and he jumps down the last few feet like the reckless idiot he is.

Christ, do I love him.

“Jesus, Snow, it’s a wonder the whole palace didn’t come running at the sounds of your fumbling.”

He comes over to me with a dazzling smile. “You called me Simon before.”

I turn around, trying to hide my accursed blush. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Come on,” I say, heading in the direction of the stables, “we need to move if we hope to not get caught.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, trotting up next to me.

“Somewhere we can be alone for a while.”

* * *

“Oh,” he says uneasily, slowing as we approach the stables, “you didn’t say we’d be going on horseback.”

“Is that a problem?”

“You saw what happened the last time I rode,” he mutters, crossing his arms uncomfortably. “I’m rubbish at it. And Dragon _hates_ me!”

“Who is Dragon?”

“My horse.”

“Your _horse_ hates you?” I say with an incredulous laugh.

 _“Yes,”_ he huffs indignantly, “so can we please not?”

My first instinct is to mock him mercilessly, but I rein it in. “I’ll show you how to get him to like you.”

“What, really?” he gapes, tailing me into the stable.

I grin. “Yes, really.”

I pull out my horse, Aleister, and Snow’s beautiful black stallion. It’s a shame he doesn’t ride him more often. Snow had looked magnificent while on Dragon when reviewing the guard—strong and gallant, like he was prepared to lead an army into battle.

I give Aleister an apple from my bag as a treat and turn to see Snow and his horse both eyeing each other warily. I sigh fondly. He really is hopeless.

I make my way over and shove another apple into Snow’s hand before dragging him closer to his horse. “Speak softly to him while slowly approaching him from the side, and try not to make eye contact.”

Snow shoots me a terrified look, but does as he’s told. He coos softly at Dragon while he creeps forward and the horse’s ears flick towards Snow in interest.

“Good, now give him the apple.”

 _“Are you mad?”_ Snow whispers frantically. “He’ll bite my fingers off!”

I roll my eyes with a smile. “Just do it.”

Snow does, offering the apple on his outstretched palm while turning his face slightly away with a wince. Dragon clambers up and sniffs at Snow’s hand before taking the proffered apple and munching on it. Snow looks at Dragon in wonder before slowly patting at his neck with a trembling hand. Dragon leans into it, nickering happily.

Snow whips his head around to face me, smiling radiantly. “You’re absolutely amazing, you bloody perfect tosser!”

My heart squeezes and for once in my life I let myself look as lovestruck as I feel.

**SIMON**

“Tell me your deepest desires,” he says.

“Tell _me_ a secret,” I shoot back as I grab at one of the hands he has around my waist to play with his fingers.

He snorts, and I can feel the vibration of it from where my back is pressed against his chest. We’re sitting against a tree on a blanket he’d spread over the ground. The lake next to us glimmers in the moonlight, ducks splashing on its surface.

“That’s the same thing, Snow,” he says from where his chin rests on my shoulder, a smile coloring his tone.

“Simon,” I correct him like I’ve been doing all night, “and it’s not. Anyone can see what your desires are but not everyone knows your secrets, do they?”

“Okay, tell me a secret then.”

“I like making lists in my head. Of things I like, things I don’t like, things I’d rather not think about...”

“Only you would make a list of things not to think about,” he says, but I can hear the fondness in it.

“S’better not to think about things you can’t have or help,” I say with a shrug, “otherwise you’ll go mad.”

“Am I on your list?”

It’s my turn to snort. “Fat chance. It’s impossible not to think of you. May as well not think about food when I’m hungry,” I nudge at his hand until we start thumb wrestling. “Now it’s your turn.”

He hums. “But you already know my biggest secret.”

“What’s that?” I ask, concentrating on not getting my thumb pinned by his.

“The fact that I’m gay.”

He pins my thumb and I mutter a curse, then turn my head to try and get a look at him. “You are?”

He lets out a dorky, snorting laugh and hugs me close. “Yes, Simon, I am. Aren’t you?”

“Dunno,” I say as I set our hands up for round two. “It was on my list of things not to think about. What with constantly switching in between care homes, aging out, then Watford I’ve always had too much on my plate to figure it out.”

“You don’t have to put a name to it if you don’t want to,” he says softly. I smile down at our hands, who’ve stopped thumb wrestling and were now just intertwined.

“I’d say that counts as a secret,” I say, “so it’s your turn again.”

“Fine. I really wanted to dance with you on your birthday. I still do.”

I clamber to my feet and wordlessly offer him my hand with a grin. We sway to no music in the moonlight, my head resting on his chest. I feel so full in that moment, my heart fit to burst. I try not to think about tomorrow, or the future at all. I just focus on us, and this moment.

When I lean in this time, he meets me halfway.

* * *

I blink blearily in the early morning light. I lift my head up from where it leans against the trunk of the tree we had leaned against all night to peer down at Baz’s head on my chest. He stirs as I watch, his eyes blinking open muzzily, and I smile down at him. “G’morning.”

“Morning,” he says with a yawn, sitting up and running a hand through his thoroughly tousled hair.

“We stayed out all night,” I say with a giggle as I sit up next to him.

He gives me a very familiar look of incredulity. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about that?”

I shrug, grinning. There’ll definitely be hell to pay, but I didn’t really give a shit at the moment. I look out at the lake and a flash of movement catches my eye.

“Hey, look,” I say pointing at a boat that hadn’t been there last night. “There’s a man in that boat.”

Baz glances over disinterestedly. “Must be a fisherman or something.”

“Odd way to fish,” I say cheerfully as the man shifts again from where he appeared to be lying on the floor of the boat on his stomach. My smile falls when I see the ‘fisherman’ point a camera in our direction.

I scramble to my feet, blood rushing in my ears. I think I’m going to be sick.

“What’s the matter?” Baz says from behind me and I whip around to face him, fists clenched.

“You— you _were_ plotting and—” I say, throat tightening.

“Wait, what are you—” he starts to say before an almost convincing look of dawning realization goes over his face as he gets to his feet. “Oh Simon, no, I wouldn’t—”

 _“Don’t call me that,”_ I snap, backing away and running a shaking hand through my hair. “I fell for it, for all of it. I’m a fucking _idiot.”_

I turn and rush for where we’d left our horses. I feel a hand on my arm but I wrench free of its grip and keep going. “Simon, please, wait—”

I whirl around to face him. I try to hold on to the anger, to not let anything else get through, but the tears come before I can stop them. “Look, you got me, alright? You’ve well and truly made a fucking joke out of me, and I hope you fucking enjoyed it, because it’s never happening again.”

I clamber onto a horse—I don’t fucking care which one right now—and gallop away without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wrings hands* Well, what did you guys think? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life's still crazy yet I'm still determined to finish this fic. Please bear with me!

**MITALI**

I open Simon’s door and make my way inside. I huff a fond sigh when I see that it’s nearly mid-morning and he’s still just a lump under his covers. 

“Come on, Simon, it’s time to get up.”

When I don’t get a response, I sigh again.

“Listen, I know things haven’t exactly been going according to plan,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed. “It’s been rather stressful for you lately, so I was thinking that maybe you, Penny, and I could unwind a bit by going to—”

The lump in the covers shifts suddenly and a groggy head that’s _definitely not Simon’s_ pops out. “Uh, g’morning, mum.”

_“Penny?”_ I gasp. “What are you doing here? Where’s—”

I suddenly hear the sound of footsteps coming up behind me and I whip around to see Simon looking rumpled, windswept, and exceedingly brittle around the edges.

“Simon, what’s happened?” I say, moving to go towards him, but am interrupted by the doors suddenly swinging open. 

Myra strides in, thin-lipped and brow furrowed, and hands me a tablet. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Thoroughly nonplussed, I examine what’s on the tablet. It’s pulled up to _The Record’s_ website, an online article reading “The Record Exclusive: A Royal Scandal!” featuring prominently. I tap on the featured video and looping footage begins to play of what looks to be Simon and Lord Wesperlin sleeping under a tree while wrapped around each other before Simon spots the camera, they have what looks to be a heated argument, and Simon storms away. 

A delighted female voice comes through the tinny speakers, saying, “We’re no strangers to the spats between Prince Simon and Basilton Grimm-Pitch, Marquis of Wesperlin, here at _The Record,_ but it seems like their turbulent relationship has taken a turn for the star-crossed!” 

I look over at Simon to see him sink down onto the couch and bury his face in his hands. 

“Thanks to an anonymous tip,” the video goes on, “they were spotted wrapped in an embrace just this morning, proving that love can blossom anywhere, even amongst the most bitter of rivals! Now one question remains: Is there still an arranged marriage in the works, or will true love prevail?”

The video ends and a hush fills the room. Penny has made her way over to Simon’s side, throwing an arm around his shoulders. I hand the tablet back to Myra wordlessly and sit on Simon’s other side. 

“So?” I prompt softly.

One of Simon’s hands moves up to grip at his curls, his eyes red-rimmed and his voice filled with self-loathing. “He tricked me. It was one of his plots and I fucking fell for it.”

Penny pulls Simon to her and he collapses into her shoulder, utterly spent. 

“What now?” Penny asks, her voice deceptively level despite the positively murderous glint in her eye. 

And therein lies the question.

**SIMON**

“Agatha, wait,” I say urgently, chasing her down the steps that led to the garden. “Look, I’m sorry, I—”

She turns around sharply, her face a mask of anger. “I can’t believe this, Simon! You both humiliated me! Not only that, but I’ve been humiliating _myself.”_

“What do you mean?” I say, bewildered.

“I have a long list of suitors, you know,” she goes on, completely ignoring my question. “I’m spoiled for choice! Yet, for some reason, I still think that this marriage is a good idea.”

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me deeply. It goes on for a long moment before we part again, panting. 

“So?” She demands. “Anything?”

“I— no, not really. It was nice and all, but—”

She sighs. “Me either.”

My eyes widen. “What, really?”

“To be perfectly honest, I’ve never felt anything with _anyone._ I don’t think I can.” 

“There’s a name for that, I think.”

She gives me a weak smile. “I know. It’s the main reason the idea of an arranged marriage never bothered me.”

“So what do we do now?”

She straightens and flips her hair back, a glint in her eye. “We stand at the altar, say ‘I do’, and become king and queen of Watford.”

I give a solemn nod. “Right.”

***

I wake up on the day of my wedding and don’t think.

I don’t think as Rita does my hair, I don’t think as I get dressed, I don’t think as I’m driven to the church in Pyrus where the wedding will take place.

I sit in the room in the church where they’re having me wait for the wedding to start and don’t think about anything at all. Because as soon as I allow the thoughts to come through, all I can see is red.

Red and black and stormy grey. 

**BAZ**

“Hurry it up, Boyo,” says Fiona as she looks herself over in front of the mirror in the sitting room. She’s in a tasteful pale blue dress paired with this decadent monstrosity of a hat. “We’re going to miss the wedding if you keep dragging your feet.”

I sit on the couch in my morning grey waistcoat, turning a deck of playing cards over and over in my hands. “I’ve decided that I’d rather not go after all.”

She casts me a look like she wants to argue, but just shrugs as she reaches for her purse. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t miss it, it’s a disaster in the making.”

I say nothing as she leaves, staring at the cards in my hands. 

Simon— _Snow_ is getting married today. 

I was going to go to the wedding and force myself to bear witness as Snow and Wellbelove wed in hopes that it’d get me to see sense, to face reality. But I’ve proven to be nothing but a coward in the end once again. The mere thought of watching Snow stand at the altar is too much for me to bear.

I should be content, really. I managed to have one romantic night with Snow, which is more than I’d ever dreamed I’d get. I’ll hold the memory of kissing Snow as we danced under the starlight until my dying breath. 

It should be enough. But it isn’t. It’s somehow worse than getting nothing, because I’ve had a taste of what could’ve been and what I could never have again.

Because Snow thinks I betrayed him. 

“Basilton, if we could have a word?” I look up at the oddly grim tone in my father’s voice.

“Of course,” I say, getting to my feet.

He’s clearly on his way to the wedding, looking immaculate in his black morning coat and grey waistcoat. He held his black tophat and grey gloves in one hand while his other held a glossy black cane. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, pinning me with his intense gaze. 

“Son,” he starts, “becoming king of Watford is the path that I had always envisioned for you. It’s what I’d prepared you for, all of these years. I’d thought making you king was the most important thing I could do for you as your father. Now, however, I realize that that was incorrect. My most important task as your father is not to make you king, but to ensure your happiness no matter the cost.”

“Father?” 

“Fiona was the one to call _The Record,_ and she might have something planned for the wedding as well.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” I say darkly, clenching my fists. “I must get to that church.”

“We can take the carriage.”

“No, that’ll be much too slow,” I say as I grab my morning coat and pull it on as I head to the door. “I’ll take Dragon.”

“Dragon?” my father says, perplexed.

I put a hand on his shoulder and offer him a smirk. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”

**SIMON**

I stand at the knock on my door. I guess it’s time. I open the door, eyes widening when they land on the last person I expect to see. 

Marguerite the maid stands at my door, wringing her hands and peering over her shoulder anxiously. 

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” she says, bobbing into a deep curtsy, “but before you get married, there’s something you must know.”

Baffled, I step aside to let her in and shut the door behind her. She moves to stand in the middle of the room and vigorously declines the chair I offer her. She looks nervous, like she expects the palace guard to barge in and haul her away at any moment. She takes a deep breath, then opens her mouth to say, “Lord Wesperlin isn’t to blame for what happened at the lake.”

I take a step back. “W-what?”

“It was his aunt who called _The Record,_ not him,” she goes on, her tiny hands clenched in her apron and her brows furrowed in determination. “I heard the whole thing. She did it to spite him for wanting to abandon the plan to take the throne.”

It takes a few tries before words come out of my mouth. “So he didn’t— he never—”

“No, Your Highness.” 

I sit in a chair heavily. Baz didn’t trick me. Baz was telling the truth. 

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask faintly.

Her smile is warm and a bit shy. “Because The Lost Prince’s fairy tale deserves a happy ending.”

**BAZ**

I tack and bridle Dragon so quickly that I expect I must’ve set some sort of record. I mount him swiftly, beyond caring about proper riding attire. 

“Come on,” I say to Dragon as I grab his reins and give his neck a pat. “Let’s go save our idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go Baz, go!
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts, it's always nice to hear what y'all are thinking.


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